


Bet It's Worth It

by bad1ands



Series: How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days AU [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Advertising Executive Derek Hale, Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, How To Lose A Guy in 10 Days AU, Journalist Stiles Stilinski, Light Angst, M/M, Werewolf Reveal, kind of:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-03 17:17:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 98,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14000850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bad1ands/pseuds/bad1ands
Summary: Up-and-coming journalist Stiles Stilinski (in hopes of later being allowed to cover more substantial stories) takes on an assignment by which he must pull a guy and then push him away in ten days.Advertising executive Derek Hale (in order to take over a major campaign for his company) must prove to his associates that he’s able to woo a man in less than two weeks.They walk into a bar.(An AU based off of the 2003 film How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.)





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

> This is a remake of my Ziam fic of the same plot.
> 
> This fic is completed, and one chapter will be posted a day for fifteen days. Forewarning: each chapter varies greatly in length anywhere between 17k to 800 words.
> 
> Title from The Beau Sisters' 'Catch Me If You Can,' which is from the soundtrack of _How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days_

| _Wednesday_ |

A steady buzz runs through his fingertips, shocks a too-wide grin to his face with the final period typed to his latest _How-To_ column. Giddiness is welling up inside his gut like Mentos in soda, and somewhere in the back of his mind he hopes the eventual explosion will be more spectacular than disastrous.

“Alli!” Stiles chirps, bites his tongue a moment later so he won’t squee like a tween, “Check this out.” _Keep it calm, cool, and collected_ , he reminds himself, ADHD and anxiety all.

Allison Argent, with her midnight waves and model legs, is the very essence of vanilla – lovely and calm, and Stiles can’t help but relax when she directs her bright smile at him. “What’s it, Hot Stuff?”

“I just finished a new piece,” is all he divulges, toes tapping surreptitiously to allow a bit of tension release. It’s suddenly one hundred degrees in the office, and Stiles resolutely blames the greenhouse effect.

With a knowing quirk of her eyebrow, his friend rounds their cubicle divider and leans in to scan what Stiles hopes he’ll be allowed to go ahead with as of the next pitch meeting.

He’d like to say that they don’t go through this same routine at least once a month and that neither has fallen so comfortably into their respective role, but, well –

His eyes lead him to the space above his computer. Ranging from ‘How To Dress For Your Body Type’ to ‘How To Get Out Of A Speeding Ticket’, the wall of framed _Prestige_ magazines do little to encourage his endeavors of branching out with his writing beyond meaningless entertainment. If anything, the bubble of hope in his stomach minutes itself enough to allow apprehension to settle. Because if he hasn’t led a breakthrough in his career thus far, who’s to say this piece will be any different?

“ _How To End Harmful Cultural Appropriation_ ,” Allison reads, no indication of her thought process present. Her gaze stays glued to the HP screen, Stiles trying to follow along despite the awful glare of sunlight in his eyes.

Allison’s quite capable of professionalism, and Stiles is convinced she could go pro in poker with her facial expression control, but the humor in his ponderings do little to bandage the bullet-hole fact that no excitement radiates from one of his closest friends.

Nevertheless, Stiles musters a hum to encourage Allison as he jerks his head in a nod, shrugging his shoulders as if it’s no big deal (even though they both know it is). “Figured this wasn’t too outside the box, so I’m hoping Lydia will run it.” He flexes his fingers to keep them from loosening the sleek tie that’s wound a suffocating grip around his neck.

Noisy chatter floats at him from all angles, hordes of scantily clad women (an attire quite impressively achieved in what’s supposed to be a professional environment, Stiles dully notes) not a month past twenty-six the source. He picks up snippets of gossip, and the neons (read: every gay boy’s hair) around the office space catch his eye as the wall of windows allows daffodil sunlight its entrance, but nothing holds Stiles’ attention long enough to ease his nerves.

“Stiles,” Allison starts, lips tilted commiseratingly with soft eyes and a hand to Stiles’ upper arm that’s meant to be comforting, but really –

Stiles’ stomach drops, visibly deflates as his shoulders hunch forward with slender fingers begging to tug through his hair. “I’ve been on this beat for two years, Alli. Two damn years, and all I’ve been able to write about is shopping tips and vacuous fads that people think will cancel their impending Mid-Life Crisis.” _It’s not fair_ he thinks to add, but instead goes with the lesser depreciating conclusion of, “I deserve to be able to cover things that actually _matter_.”

Allison stands at that, sighs as she straightens her pencil skirt. She’s all business when needed, pressed blouses and moderate makeup these days because natural looks good on her. “I know. But we work for _Prestige_ , and satisfying readers over journalists is how it’s always been, unfortunately.” Empathy is clear in her slight frown and wide eyes, but she refuses to let it appear in full form.

(Which Stiles is glad for, because he can’t stand pity – as he’s let known to everyone that has wormed their way into his inner circle.)

“Remind me why the hell I still work here?” he grumbles, irritation aiming to mask the defeat that’s grating his nerves as he sinks lower in his rolling chair.

An impish grin makeups Allison’s face as she leans casually on Stiles' desk space. “Because your unassailable knowledge on female predominant topics has the ladies intrigued, which in turn makes you quite the catch, which further raises your pay,” her practiced answer rings true. “Plus,” she finishes as lithe legs click-clack their heels ominously for a perfunctory punchline Stiles is all too familiar with: “I’m here.”

Stiles wants to roll his eyes because he set himself up for that one, but an untamed grin wins out instead. “Maybe I should’ve kicked you off my Top 8 a long time ago. I’d be enjoying a job with relevance then, maybe.”

Allison just tuts as she drags her manicured nails over Stiles’ desk. “You’ll get there one day, kid. And don’t act like you didn’t get a kick out of trying Scott’s pick-up lines for your last column.”

“Fuck!” Stiles hushes, ignoring Allison’s snark, “I haven’t seen Scott today.”

The hum of journalists around them pierces Stiles and Allison’s bubble for a moment of silence between the two. “I think Deaton had to put down a cat last night,” Allison materializes with a sad sigh as the pieces click into place. “Is it your turn or mine?”

Stiles does run a hand through his hair this time, itching for a coffee or maybe a Four Loko since the day’s outlook doesn’t appear too bright. But they’ve all three had each other’s backs since joining the _Prestige_ team – new recruits banning together under circumstance – and he doesn’t plan on being a shit friend just because he’s in an off mood. “I’ve got it today. If we’re not back in thirty don’t send help.”

A snort and pat is all Allison graces him with as she twirls back to her cubicle, dropping down to tidy up miscellaneous papers. “I’ll pick up those muffins from the corner.”

“Perfect,” Stiles breathes appreciatively before he snatches up his backpack and brisks to glass doors, steps into the foot traffic of New York City.

**

Once again, owning a motorcycle in Manhattan proves most ingenious as Derek whizzes past the onset of a taxi build-up with minimal honks from pressed drivers. Having not shifted in a few weeks, the rush of the wind is just what he needs to spike a day’s worth of adrenaline.

Also, finding parking spots is incredibly easy.

Snuggling in between two cars, Derek shuts his bike off to get lost in the bustle of the city. His city, he likes to think. Because with travelers and tourists at every intersection, Derek knows they’re standing where he’s stood before, where he has established his legacy on the billboards they can’t help but gawk at. (Where he’s _trying_ to create a mark in his field, he amends. Without being a byproduct of his family name’s notoriety.)

Jennifer Blake, his coworker at Wolfe-Mann Advertising, walks her way past him, tossing a cordial “Hello, Derek” over her shoulder just to commence her reading pleasure at a halt on the sidewalk.

He takes in her grey pantsuit, natural waves straightened to frame her cakey complexion, pauses just to save face. “Blake,” he nods with a forced-friendly smile as he swings his leg off his motorcycle, “What’ve you got to read this morning?”

The question turns rhetorical when he recites the page off to himself: “ _Prestige Magazine_ : ‘How To Match Your MAC Skin Tone.’ Hmm…” Derek looks around as if considering the possible fix, “Ridiculously obvious promo.”

The woman rolls her eyes with a sneer, ever thinking she’s gained tenure based on the handful of years she holds his senior. “You act like it’s a bad thing, which is foolish considering _our_ clients run _our_ campaigns in _Prestige_ quite frequently. Y’know, the fastest growing women’s magazine in the country,” she adds with a condescendingly saccharine smile.

Derek rolls his eyes at that, her petty rivalry with him too much in the morning. “I’m aware, thanks; I’ve got women’s workout clothing on quite a few pages.”

“Yes, well,” she quips haughtily, “It would probably do you some good to actually read said pages to get the best edge. Did I mention,” she flips through a couple articles for dramatic effect, “Pearson and I have an appointment at Prestige today?”

Flashbacks to voluntarily taking on an assignment with the woman for a week crash into Derek, regret like his first full moon forcing a wrinkle to his nose and an intense urge to vacate the premises. Because he’s ashamed that he didn’t pick up on her tenacious, power-hungry complex from the moment she set her sights on him.

(Because in hindsight it’s obvious she tried seducing him to get ahead in the company. What a fucking Druid. It was probably for some satanic ritual. But it didn’t work, and he’s long over it now.)

Back to reality and the hell he still hasn’t completely evaded, apparently, it’s funny that Jennifer mentions _Prestige_ as if Derek couldn’t become a partner in the company with a few phone calls and signatures. Maybe that’s her point though, that he’s yet to sample an untapped barrel. But, again, Derek doesn’t want to exploit familial-by-marriage relations in order to rise up in his field.

“Hale,” a new voice addresses Derek before he can form a response, its body clacking down Wolfe-Mann’s steps to form a line of defense beside Jennifer.

Although Braeden Pearson’s attitude is less hostile this morning, the bad blood of a failed date is evident between her and Derek, exemplified via her ever-strengthening friendship with Jennifer. (The term ‘date’ is used loosely, though, considering Derek saw it as a drink to welcome the new coworker while Pearson saw it as an invitation to bone.)

Definitely not a certified pacifist, Derek Hale still knows when to bow out of a brawl, especially when the odds are stacked so high against him. His competitors are up to something, and even though Derek has grown up the middle child between two girls, he still doesn’t understand how they work. “Goodbye, ladies,” is all he supplies with a waved salute and confident steps distancing the square feet between the two parties.

An old bell dings Derek’s entrance into his workplace. Wolfe-Mann’s building reminds him of a man-cave. Especially with an old pool table to the back and flooring consisting of mahogany wood, pine green curtains pulled to the side of the windows because someone felt the need for aesthetic. Entering into his realm brings a fresh ease to Derek’s psyche.

He passes off head-nods to his colleagues, tosses unenthusiastic smiles to the few situated at their desks while on his way to his office in the corner. Just as he spies Boyd through the glass bay doors separating their two spaces, the man is out of his seat and making his way towards Derek.

Boyd is all minimal chatter with a calming lilt to his words, a bald head and strong physique making him intimidating to the eye, but Derek has worked with him long enough to know he’s anything but – except when closing a deal. It’s always a good time to work with Boyd, and his only downfall is that he doesn’t use his good looks to make friendly with clients.

But Derek can appreciate the fact that Boyd will own up to his drawbacks. And it’s to both of their advantage anyway, because while Boyd is stoic and genuine enough to instill commitment in clients, Derek can deliver the final punch with a well-timed laugh and gleaming smile. That said, with each person distanced from _perfect_ , Derek’s working on creating selling points for himself as an individual consultant apart from just the admirable reputation he was born into.

But for now he and Boyd work incredibly well as a team.

“What’s up, boss man?” Boyd greets him with a slap on the back, the sun behind him highlighting his outline like the mirage of a savior. (Which, in a lot of ways, he is for Derek.)

Color floods Derek’s countenance as his cheeks pinch high in a smile. “Great, Boyd. Is Erica back yet?”

“She’ll be in late today because she’s stopping by Prestige to see some friends,” Boys shrugs, his face saying he doesn’t quite grasp how women work either.

And Derek shakes his head subtly, fondly, before, “Have you two decided on a date?”

Boyd’s letting out a disbelieving bark of laughter. “Did you just try to make a joke, Hale? One minute she wants spring but the next fall, but it all depends on whether she wants the ceremony inside or outside.”

Derek really can’t help but snicker at that, because, well, Erica can be a bit ludicrous. As he found out after she got plastered at a bar they went to before ditching Derek and somehow ending up in bed with a then-stranger Boyd.

Feeling as if they’ll both get in trouble if they keep talking shit, Derek nods his head a bit before gliding to his makeshift closet of a pole suctioned between two filing cabinets and pulling a sleek button-up off its hanger. Black, he thinks, looks good on him.

Before anything else can be said, Isaac from merchandising is skirting into Derek’s office. “Did you tell him?”

Isaac’s looking at Boyd, but before either can continue Derek jumps the gun with, “Tell me that he owes me twenty bucks? Tell me I’m right and that the Yankees are gunna bring it home?”

Boyd, for all his class, curses out a “Shit!” followed by, “I can’t believe you remembered!”

“Remembered what?” pops in an amused timbre along with one Erica Reyes, radiant glow and wild hair in a light suit. She really does clean up nice from beaten Vans and graphic tees.

“Nothing, sweetheart,” Boyd clamors out of his seat and sends it sailing backwards into the wall, heads from colleagues turning to them left and right that have Derek ducking abashedly and Isaac waving his hand dismissively.

Erica shoves a punch to Boyd’s arm, her irises flashing gold as his face flushes with nervous laughter. “Hear about the championship series, Der?”

Boyd, poor guy, falls back in a chair with his hand slapped over his eyes in defeat. A painful moan is lamented out of him, and Derek nearly slams his door shut before his betas can draw any more attention to the conversation.

“What are you doing here, Erica?” Derek queries. Belatedly, he hopes not to have come off uncouth, but the onslaught of so many people already has him shelling off into himself while simultaneously wanting to roar their asses into submission. But that would look oddly suspicious, so he settles for a vaguely disapproving frown.

“I’m back from L.A., obviously. Didn’t you miss me?” her voice rises in indignance, arms crossed tight as her hip cocks.

Derek curls an arm around Erica in response, knows one of his rare shows of affection will settle her. It’s a wonder how far they’ve all come since first meeting. “Still not back to work, huh?”

“Fuck off!” Erica pushes away from Derek, “The trip was paid for _by_ your sister, thank you very much. I gave Allison Argent tickets to the Yankees game, by the way. Why don’t you call her up and make amends?”

Derek knows he’s used up his daily quota of eye-rolls, but, “Knock it off, Erica. Just because her sister is psycho doesn’t mean we hate each other.” And on further thought, “Isn’t Kate in prison now?”

“Grand theft auto or something,” Erica shrugs, not bothering to explain further.

Isaac manages to change the subject: “You were right, boss; Dilaurentis Diamonds is looking for a new ad agency, and Peter wants on top of that shit.”

Derek doesn’t care if he looks like an idiot when he leans over, fists pressed just in front of his face in victory, mumbling to himself, “I _knew_ it, guys. I’ve got to get on this. Fuck – the Dilaurentis name is the face of the diamond industry. Christ, I want this, okay? When can I pitch?”

Long-time beta, soon-to-be brother-in-law Isaac hesitates a smidge too long before confessing: “Laura already gave it to Blake and Pearson.”

Under ordinary circumstances Derek would be bitter. He’d snark a bit to available ears, but Laura knows who will be able to sell what generally.

But these aren’t ordinary circumstances. Derek could use this business opportunity to move ahead in the advertising game, to prove that he’s something worth looking into. “No fucking way!” he throws his hand up only for it to find itself on his hip, feet burning a trail already as he melts to the spot.

Boyd harrumphs, which Derek takes to mean they stand in solidarity.

Erica only laughs breezily as if this is just office gossip, not a monumental standstill in Derek’s career.

Isaac shrugs, still leaned lazily against Derek’s doorframe. “It’s true that she’s a bit partial to pretty young things.”

“I’m sure Miss Martin keeps Laura’s hands full – literally!” Erica throws in from the sidelines, now casually perched on Boyd’s lap.

Derek can’t even find the energy to scold, too used to Erica’s antics. Firmly, he pinches the bridge of his nose to relieve the building pressure in his head. “They’re at a meeting right now at Prestige. I’ve just got to get to Laura before they do.”

“Funky Buddha tonight. That’s where he’s meeting with them,” Isaac informs.

A nod of his head and a moment to clear it later Derek is responding, “Okay, I’ll just show up tonight and steal the pitch.”

Erica scoffs, finally done with Devil’s Advocate, apparently. “You can’t just show up with no angle, Derek.” The woman smoothes over the lapel of her suit, and she’s back to business in the blink of an eye.

Exasperated and a bit desperate, Derek grumbles, “Well then what do _you_ suggest, Reyes?”

And it’s like Erica was only waiting for the go ahead, because a smirk jumps to her face as she cups one hand over her fist, stands straight and steady in her pumps. “I need to get to work. I can stop by Prestige on the way there. Maybe listen in a bit to what those girls have to say.”

In having known Erica four years already, Derek slits his eyes with a chary, “What’s in it for you?”

Most likely because of the time crunch, Erica doesn’t drag her answer out into a guessing game. “Allison works there.”

“No, Erica,” Derek huffs, defeat in his tone, “I am _not_ going out with your friend. It would just end badly, and you’d bitch about it for years. Besides, I’m not convinced her entire lineage isn’t degenerate.”

“Oh, suck it up, Derek,” Erica goes to punch him in the shoulder, clearly not pleased with the fact that relationships is still a sore subject. “I won’t talk you up to my _female_ friends anymore.”

Derek knows he should question the emphasis on ‘female,’ but his day is already jam-packed with happenings, and he’s really fucking drained. Antsy. The full moon is two weeks away, so his mood can’t exactly be helped. “Alright.”

With a deceivingly pleasant smile, Erica nods her head, hands in pockets. “I’m leaving now. I’ll meet you at Funky Buddha tonight, though, Alpha.”

“Don’t bother talking to them, Er,” Derek starts, slightly aussaged by her show of respect. “They’ll know something’s up, and if Laura’s already on their side I’d at least like the element of surprise on mine before I crash their dinner tonight.”

Erica salutes Derek after a moment, a slight nod just for the two of them. “Roger that, Boss.”

Derek offers an upturn of his lips as response, waving Erica out the door.

**

Luckily, Scott’s flat is just a few blocks from _Prestige_ ’s building. And at ground level.

With a light rap on the front door there is no answer. After a beat and a careful ear, Stiles thuds his fist harder, a sturdy “Scott?” voiced for good measure.

About a minute passes with no sign of life, so Stiles promptly glances to his wrist to note that it’s only been five seconds, and then he proceeds to make his way to the side of his ( _former_ , he swears) best friend’s flat.

Stiles works to climb onto Scott’s fenced-in patio through the sparse hedges as gracefully as possible in his best slacks, and then he jiggles the side door open until the black hole that is Scott’s home vacuums him in.

Morning light penetrates the space from the open door, and Stiles has to cover his eyes against the rectangular pocket of too-brightly lit carpet. Snipping out the source, Stiles curses sharply before fumbling to open the window blinds _slowly_. That only serves to cross Stiles' eyes with the contrast between black and white prison bars projected against the room’s layout, though.

Drawing Scott’s cheap, sheer cotton curtains enables light filtration into a monochromatic scheme of gray all over the lounge. Nothing is too untidy – which is a plus – besides a throw pillow on the carpet and a few cabinets haphazardly wide open in the kitchenette.

Yet another trying routine Stiles has allowed to form in his life, next he taps into his sense of smell to assess the damage. Stiles nearly stumbles back as a scent wave of alcohol punches him in the gut, churning whatever food is left inside.

Deciding to allow air passage through his nose is never pleasant, but it has to be done, so Stiles maneuvers under the curtains and blinds to lift Scott’s window an inch just to dilute the aroma.

Stiles is almost sympathetic toward Scott’s predicament until his receptors hone in on the lingering smell of weed, which he’s sure Scott nicked from him at some point.

With a shallow huff, Stiles squares his shoulders and marches onward and so forth into Scott’s bedroom just past the t.v. and left.

After a stoic “Scott” and a louder “Wake up,” Stiles chucks a discarded pillow at the dirty mop that is Scott’s hair.

“Oof!” is emanated from what most would presume to be a dead body, and, slowly but surely, Scott begins to roll onto his back, elevating his upper body with an elbow to squint one eye open.

“You’re late.”

Scott promptly shoves his face back into his pillow at that, grumbling loudly.

Stiles switches on his feet, waits one solid second before he reaches down for another pillow to peg at Scott’s head.

“Chill the fuck out, man,” Scott intones with more malice than usual.

“It’s Wednesday. It’s 10:00 am. You’re making both of us late.”

_One, two, three –_

“It’s over, alright? My life is over,” Scott divulges, something in his disposition that of a hopeless, voice soft and a tad wobbly if Stiles were to thoroughly analyze.

Sighing, hesitant steps carry Stiles to Scott’s bed. Sitting down, he drags lazy fingers through Scott’s mane. And he truthfully doesn’t know quite how to go about cheering his pal up, but he hopes humor will suffice. “I’m not gunna let you lose your job just because you can’t save every cat ever.”

Scott rolls over to actually make eye contact through squinted lids. “What about cats?”

Uh. Stiles actually shakes his head in hopes of stimulating his brain. “What do you mean _what about cats_? Allison told me that you told her that Deaton is putting one down today.”

“Mmmnnghgg,” Scott groans out, “I must have mentioned it last night, and if she remembers _that_ then she _definitely_ remembers me _confessing my love for her_!”

Squeezing his eyes closed tight, Stiles can actually feel his blood pressure rising. Scott’s obsession with Allison has been out of hand for far too long, and it’s even worse to hear about when Stiles is sure that Allison feels the same way. Or used to, at least. Before they broke up.

Still, he knows that Scott will have a chance to blubber over his claimed ‘lost relationship’ (even though it ended mutually) at some point, but right now they really _are_ going to be late for a staff meeting. “Up and at ‘em,” Stiles slaps Scott’s ass as he stands from the mattress, “Grab a quick shower, and I’ll pick you out something nice.”

There’s no doubt a head rush accompanies the fashion Scott jumps up with. “Keep your filthy paws off my clothes.”

“Put some damned pants on and maybe I’ll take you seriously,” Stiles says, done with the day already.

Scott puts up minimal fight, a lack of banter that actually worries Stiles more than reassures. But at least he slams the bathroom door, which reaffirms that Scott isn’t beside himself enough to give up pestering Stiles.

Ahh, Stiles loses himself in memories of high school when his and Scott’s roles were reversed, and Stiles knows now it’s much easier to be the lovesick fool than the supportive best friend. Not that Scott was extremely good in the encouraging department, but that’s because he’s much better playing the fool.

Although, honestly, Stiles hasn’t done too well to support Scott as of late, and the full moon will be shining bright pretty soon, so maybe Stiles should cut his friend some slack.

Once Scott is in the shower, Stiles grabs out jeans, boots, and a plain white button-up from Scott’s closet and sets the outfit on the bed.

Giving in to all of the world’s cruel vices, Stiles sets insta-coffee to brew while he steps onto the balcony to inhale a cigarette. It neutralizes the ache in his nerves, but he knows the speed walk to Prestige will be hell on his lungs.

It’s 10:20 am before Stiles is capping off a coffee-filled thermal, Scott is picking off a banana from his kitchen counter, and both are exiting the apartment in silence.

Fall in New York is much worse than even winter in California, so both boys conserve energy (which translates to heat) by dismissing chat. (Or maybe they don’t talk because Stiles loathes mornings and Scott is always too beat up after a failed attempt to seduce Allison to act his usual charismatic self.) And in any case, self-reflection is said to be crucial to development, both intellectual and emotional. (Although, Stiles presumes, these quiet times should probably be used to draw inspiration from the beauty of nature, of life instead of mentally damning nicotine to Hell, but –)

Allison is waiting for them outside of Prestige with Scott’s muffin, and as soon as they’re set to step inside Stiles decides to skip past anymore of Scott’s walk of shame. “So, do you remember anything from last night, Alli?”

For all her grace, Allison just snorts drily. “That’s funny.”

“Yeah?” Mr. Mopey is already perking up, “Me either. And I felt too ratchet to fix my hair.”

“Your hair looks perfectly fine to me,” Allison admonishes with a ruffle for emphasis, dazzling smile on display.

“Did you just say ‘ _ratchet,_ ’ bro?” Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose as he shoulders through the company entrance.

“What?” Scott exclaims to everyone in a ten mile radius, his grand entrance. “Forgive me for not being _with the times_.”

Stiles can’t help but roll his eyes: “I was just messing with you, Scott.” He pauses a moment, eyebrows arcing, “Besides, I’m sure you know a lot more fitness whiz stuff than I do.”

Scott only grumbles out discordant vowels as the troupe reaches their cubicles, Scott locking a stack of haphazard papers into his desk drawer before checking the time, 10:39 am.

“Nobody can sense my charm with this long hair,” Scott states, leaning against a cubicle divider to pick at his nails as if the conversation is of minimal importance.

“Do you _like_ your hair?” Allison asks, concern writing her features, arms crossing to perch on the edge of Scott’s desk.

“Yes,” he doesn’t hesitate to answer. “Do you?”

“It doesn’t matter if anyone else cares for it or not. If you take pride in your appearance then everyone else will respect your charm,” Stiles rationalizes, quick to jump in before Scott embarasses himself.

Scott huffs. “Easy for you to say, Stiles; you’re flawless.”

“He’s right, you know,” sounds a bright voice, one Erica Reyes breaching the triangle they’ve made to shoot a grin at Stiles with a firm pat on his shoulder.

Allison fails to hide her giddiness at seeing Erica behind a roll of her eyes, arms caged over her chest with a cocked hip. It takes at least 30 seconds for them to finish hugging and chatting lightning-quick with pitches dogs might not even be able to hear.

“I can’t believe you didn’t bring me a jar of sand from LA,” Allison jokes.

Erica pivots, rearranging the triangle into a square as she points a thumb at Allison to pull a ridiculous face for Stiles and Scott. “Girls and their souvenirs. Am I right?” She lifts her brow.

Stiles just chuckles, knowing mischief follows Erica Reyes and not feeling too keen on becoming an accomplice – not in his workplace, at least. 

“Ahem,” Scott clears his throat, clearly disgruntled at the interruption.

A slick smirk twists Erica’s lips as she turns toward Scott. “You alright there, beautiful?”

Scott, for his part, huffs an indignant, “We were in the middle of a discussion.” His arms cross over his chest, but Stiles knows it’s more for effect than actual defensiveness.

“Which I backed you up on, pumpkin,” Erica shoots back, hands clasping behind her back.

(They’ve been doing this since they met, Stiles thinks, which was about six months ago. Erica flirts with Allison, and Scott gets his thong in a twist even though Stiles is pretty sure Erica is engaged and just sweet-talks Alli to rile Scott up.

Stiles is also of the belief that Erica is just pleased that she’s able to lever some semblance of control over another werewolf, bitten as they both may be)

“Flawless, did you say?” Erica questions, leans on one leg to let the other tap idly, arms crossed.

“No one is flawless,” Stiles averts, eyes searching outside of their bubble as if to find supporting evidence, “Everyone is problematic.”

“I feel like he was referencing your face, sweetie, not your character,” Erica smirks before her head tilts toward Scott, “Go on with your story, then.” 

Stiles grimaces, really doesn’t want to get into it today. But of fucking course Scott sighs out, tugs fingers through his thick hair. He then takes a messy bite of his food as if to draw out the suspense, and Stiles definitely wishes he hadn’t woken the kid up.

“Well,” Scott starts with the back of his hand wiping crumbs from his face, “Stiles has always been the smarter one, right?”

And Stiles catches Allison’s eye so he can point at his non-existent watch. Because Scott’s stories are always terribly drawn out, and he’s sure they’ll be late if they don’t head for the conference room soon.

Scott doesn’t break his monologue on the way to the elevator: “… it’s fine usually, and especially during college because I don’t have social anxiety, so we balanced each other out with the books smarts versus street smarts – “

Stiles pulls this distorted noise at the back of his throat, “Please – not today, Scott.” Because Scott having street smarts? HAH.

“No, no, I’d _love_ to hear where this is going,” Erica voices, a grin prominent as ever with a wink to Scott, a vulture rounding its prey.

Scott ignores both of them to continue, “But now he’s grown into himself and has a bit more confidence, so he gets hit on at least three times a night when we go out–“

“ _At least_ three times?” Allison fact-checks, disbelieving eyes darting to Stiles.

“Hey!” Stiles squawks, which kind of disproves Scott’s argument that Stiles is Mr. Cool all of a sudden.

“ – At least! Can you believe it?” Scott verifies as if he isn’t insulting Stiles every second he goes on. “Yet he never dates anyone!”

Stiles' gut clenches up at Scott’s careless laundering of his love life. Holding his tongue because he might wack Scott upside the head if they get into it, Stiles pushes the button for the elevator. 

Apparently Allison and Erica decide it best not to interject either, because they shuffle into the elevator in relative silence.

The quiet moment gone, Scott seems to perk up considerably as Allison pushes for level five and he continues down his timeline. “But at least that means I won’t be the only one forever alone.”

The look Allison shoots Stiles this time reads vaguely apologetic. “Don’t be silly, Scott; odds are both of you will find someone to spend your life with.”

Scott’s voice is lower as he finishes, “Just not with the person I want.”

Stiles glances to Erica this time, and the woman looks annoyed with a taut jaw and stony stance. As much as she likes to tease Scott, Stiles knows Erica really does care about him, which is why Stiles never intervenes when the jibes get too real.

The elevator doors open to the less-frazzled atmosphere of level five, but the vibes don’t do much to settle Stiles' stomach. “It’ll all work out, bro,” he rubs a hand down Scott’s back as he tries a smile.

Scott’s never had trouble pulling – especially when they were a bit younger – but ever since Allison Argent the game has changed. Unfortunately, at twenty-three years of age most people are still busy climbing their career ladders, chasing their dreams, experiencing as much as possible before settling down. Especially in New York.

Stiles – never much one for relationships (though not for lack of trying, as his pal suggests) – often feels like he’s living his due amount of heartbreaks vicariously through Scott. And he empathizes with Scott even further because of it even without the fact that Scott _deserves_ a happily ever after in consideration.

“You sound like a fucking prick,” Erica spits, and Stiles is a bit startled by the vehemence, honestly.

Scott balks at Erica’s tone, sputters “What do you mean?”

The walk through level five is fairly short, so Allison sets a slow pace in what Stiles knows is an effort to cheer Scott up before their meeting.

“Just because you’re pathetic over some girl that obviously doesn’t want you doesn’t mean you can backhand Stilinski,” Erica proclaims.

Allison cuts her eyes at Erica, and Stiles is sure Erica feels the ice in her gaze with the way she clenches her jaw. “Let’s not talk about this anymore,” Alli rectifies in a mothering tone.

“Reyes is the one being a bitch,” Scott grumbles before shoving the rest of his muffin down his gullet.

“Instead of comparing yourself to me, maybe you should own up to your own dating fails,” Stiles bites his tongue, winces because he’s an actual idiot. “It’s not that you’re doomed to be single forever, you just do a whole lot of the wrong things and not enough of the right things when trying to talk to girls.”

Again, Stiles takes a moment to mentally kick himself because he should _not_ have phrased it that way.

They pass a conference in session quietly before Scott asks, “What do you mean ‘the wrong things’?” Scott sounds outrageously offended.

Luckily, Allison – ever better with words – picks up, “Well, if you call the ladies you like too much you probably come off as clingy. And you may or may not have hijacked a Girls Night Out when you walked into that group at the bar last night,” she teases.

Thankfully, Scott takes criticism from Allison seriously, so his next response is more productive than prickly. “So you’re saying that you wouldn’t like me to call you or try to make nice with your friends?”

“Here we fucking go,” Erica mumbles and lifts her gaze to the ceiling.

“She’s saying that if anyone used your methods to pick someone up they probably wouldn’t be successful,” Stiles cuts attention away from Erica.

“Well I doubt you’d be much better at chatting someone up since you don’t ever _try to_ ,” Scott scoffs. 

Erica buts in again, and Stiles doesn’t care to stop her this time. “With a face like Stiles’ he doesn’t have to practice pick-up lines in the mirror like a loser.”

Although grateful Erica has his back, Stiles _really_ doesn’t want this weird little competition with Scott to go on any further. “Welp, look at the time! We’re Ready Freddy for our meeting!” He half-screams just as they arrive outside of their conference room. “We’ll catch you later, Reyes.”

A glint in her eyes, the woman just flashes dazzling teeth, likely because she’s won at ruffling everyone’s feathers. “You can’t ditch me that easily, sweetie. Lydia loves me, and I figure it’s time for a visit.”

——

Five minutes pass like five hours, and Stiles is already situated at the end of a muted sky blue, suede couch by the time his colleagues are instructed by their boss to take a seat. The sofas are arranged in a square with Lydia in a lone armchair centered in one vertex.

With the arrangement based on a week’s obsession of ‘harmonizing oneself with nature’, Stiles wonders idly if his boss at least bothered to look into _feng shui_. Because she’s seated with her front to the door – a position considered empowering. If the move was purposeful, maybe that means she’ll be more likely to run his article. Or maybe she doesn’t give a rip about appropriation and just wants to make people think she’s hip.

His dozen colleagues quieten rather easily, and Stiles knows it’s due more out of envy than respect. Which is a bit disheartening for Lydia as his superior, his own rank as subordinate, and the fate of _Prestige Magazine_.

With the mentality of a privileged princess and the authority of a queen, Stiles can’t help comparing Lydia to Joffrey in Game of Thrones. While less sadistic and more… self-centered, the fact of the matter remains that allegiance to Lydia relies more on assumption that she keeps record in a burn book than actual loyalty.

She doesn’t seem to care, though, if she notices at all. Ignorance is bliss, he supposes.

“Vyvian, what do you have?” Lydia starts with the younger reincarnation of herself. All of the sass, none of the ass.

The woman has become a smidge obsessed with plastic surgery over the years, and Stiles doesn’t care much for a butt lift anytime soon since he’s got it on good authority (read: his mirror) that he’s got a nice tush already, so he takes the time to stare out the window to his left.

The view of West 42nd Street is obstructed by their sister building mostly, but out of the corner of the window he gets a peek at the foot traffic. He’s trying to ward off the trepidation that comes along with a rejected proposal, that comes with trying to figure out what to do _after_ he’s been shut down. Because he put so much of himself into _this_ piece that he honestly hasn’t bothered brainstorming what to do next for the column.

Stiles tries catching Erica’s eye who’s leaned in a corner of the room, thinking that the woman will at least serve as distraction with her mocking facials she’s known to pull, but –

“Stiles,” Lydia nods to him with an almost bored exterior, “what’s next for _How-To_?”

Three seconds to draw in a breath and straighten his spine, “I’ve got something a bit more cultured –“ he hears Erica snort at the pun and cuts his eyes at the deserter “– but I think it would be interesting to readers who are looking to do their part in appreciating different cultures as opposed to misappropriating them.”

“Too controversial,” Lydia says as she turns to pounce on her next victim.

“Lydia, with all due respect,” Stiles starts, “How is the subject controversial? It’s a social issue and –“

“We don’t do social issues, Stiles. We don’t do politics,” she undermines his proposal. “ _Prestige_ is fashion, trends, cosmetics, sex, etcetera. You’ve done fabulous with _How-To_ as of yet, but it isn’t a must-read. We want numbers, and we can’t afford to lose readers if they see something they don’t like. As soon as you make it a must-read, you’ll be granted wiggle room.”

Next to him, Allison covertly presses a hand to his elbow in knowing Stiles can be a bit fiery. He digs his nails into his palm, ready to lecture. But she’s right: _Prestige_ has always been airily avaricious, and he can’t change the core of the company. “Yes, Lydia.”

And he thinks to be ashamed that he won’t stand up for his ideals, for a message that ought to be heard. But at the end of the day he needs a job in order to sustain himself. And he values the saying ‘help yourself first before you help the world’ in this case.

“Scott?” she moves on.

He looks up slowly from where his hands are clasped in his lap, obviously a bit startled at the sudden attention. “Erm –“

“He had a bit of a rough week, actually,” Allison supplies with a gentle hand to Scott’s upper arm and a prim smile to Lydia, “A messy breakup.”

“Oh!” the queen laments as she leans back and dramatizes a frown, “That’s just terrible.”

With the eager eyes and frothing mouths around the room, Stiles' guess is that no one is too troubled by the prospect of a single Scott. Or maybe they’re just hungry for someone else’s misery besides their own.

“Hey!” Lydia chirps, always adequate in corralling attention, “Write about it.” Dead serious.

Scott’s brow wrinkles, elbows resting on his knees as he leans forward slightly. “I’m not quite sure how I’d make a story out of that as of present –“

“Oh,” she cuts him off, “ _completely_ understandable.” She takes a moment to sweep the room with her eyes, a lioness on the prowl, before, “I’m sure someone in here would just _love_ to come up with an angle on Scott’s personal life.”

Stiles is just about to let out a disbelieving laugh at the _nerve_ of this woman when Erica voices, “That’d be me, actually,” as she lifts her finger in the air and makes her way to the meeting square.

Stiles actually _does_ scoff at that: “You don’t even go here.”

“So are you volunteering, Mr. Stilinski?” Erica smarts, eyebrows lifting in what Stiles knows is a challenge.

“Oh, Erica,” Lydia rolls her eyes with smirk, “You’re always making the scene.”

“Yes, I am,” Stiles nearly tramples Lydia’s sentence, aware that it sounds like he’s answering Lydia instead of Erica.

“Is that so, Stilinski?” Erica is clearly amused now.

And it’s too late to backtrack, so, “It’s easy to meet someone and plan to get to know them throughout multiple dates, but it seems a lot of people have trouble holding onto relationships past the first week or so.” For instance, Scott and Kira. Which ended because Scott is still hung up on Alli.

Stiles looks to Scott who is sitting with a blank stare and an open mouth. He’s looking for encouragement or _something_ , grappling for a direction because he has no clue where he’s going with this pitch.

Once it’s apparent Scott will be of no help, he nods to himself in efforts to psych himself up, licks his lips. “You choose a love interest based on first impressions, based on their looks, right? But after you’ve been able to appreciate genetics, most people lose interest because they’re not compatible. Or maybe you come on too strong, scare them off, and there never is a second date.” 

Allison’s look is an amused _Where the fuck are you going with thist?_ , so Stiles ups his game, thriving on proving people wrong. “Take Scott for example. He’s a catch, yeah?” _God_ , he sounds like a car salesman, but his coworkers are nodding along anyway. “Suitors would be lining the block for a chance with him if they knew what a great guy he is, but, unfortunately, Scott has a tendency to pull classic mistakes that turn his dates off before they can really get to know him.” Such as raving about an ex-girlfriend.

Lydia holds her hand up to weigh in, which is convenient, because Stiles needs time to regroup. “So you’re saying you want to do a _How-To_ on keeping a date interested?”

“Well, that’s a bit too broad, isn’t it?” Stiles decides, brow scrunching and both feet planting firmly on the floor as he leans elbows on knees. “I could do an article on the surefire ways to scare a romantic interest out of commitment, though.”

“So,” Erica jumps in, surprisingly interested in what’s come of her earlier teasing, “you’re going to do the opposite of a ‘dating _How-To_ ’?

Stiles gives a sharp nod, finalizing the plan without any consensus from his brain on the decision. “A ‘what _not_ to do’. I’ll start dating a guy and then drive him away with the Universal Don’ts of Dating.”

“ _How To Lose A Guy In Ten Days_ ,” Lydia voices, eyes to the ceiling in thought, “I love it.”

“Ten days?” Stiles queries, tone going shrill.

“We go to press in eleven,” she steamrolls, ending any negotiation.

Allison, Erica, and Scott are all smirking at him as he settles back into the couch.

——

Stiles really just wants to go back to his apartment and lay in bed for the rest of the day, but he owes his friends an explanation as to what came over him.

(That’s the story he’s going with – him being dignified enough to face his woes, but in actuality Erica sidles up to him before he can make a break for it.)

Exiting the conference room, Lydia steals Erica for a chat while Scott and Allison take up the rear of the group, heads close together in cahoots.

Sandwiched between the two parties all the way to the bottom floor, Stiles finally sees his break when Lydia announces, “Wolfe-Mann Advertising,” as if summoning the two women near Prestige’s entrance.

Erica, for reasons unbeknownst, hastes a goodbye to Lydia with some excuse of getting to work before waving at Allison, Scott, and Stiles.

Allison and Scott leave no room for escape as they close in on Stiles' right side to form a semi-circle around Lydia’s clientele, though.

Lydia briefly shakes two hands, introducing the ladies as Jennifer Blake and Braeden Pearson from Wolfe-Mann Advertising. Stiles vaguely notes that Blake is actually a bit of an inorganic orange hue. And by vaguely notes he means scream-laughs in his head while trying to catch Scott’s eye.

Introductions follow: “Scott McCall, _Fitness and Health_ ; Allison Argent, _Fashion and Trends_ ; Stiles Stilinski, resident _How-To_.”

Instantly, a smile flirts its way to Blake’s countenance, eyes zeroing in on Stiles. “Oh, yes,” she tilts her chin, “I’ve been reading your column, Stiles.”

The way his name rolls off her tongue has him fighting a shudder, face muscles working to remain stilled so he doesn’t wrinkle his nose in distaste of the woman’s advances. Stiles ends up nodding at her in acknowledgment.

Obviously ill-pleased, Blake clasps her hands in front in effort to leverage her breasts. “What are you working on now, then? I’d love to give it a read,” she hardly refrains from a wink.

Lydia, most likely itching to stand in the spotlight, jumps in at that. And for once Stiles is actually grateful. “Oh, you won’t believe this,” his boss starts, leaning forward as if a teenager sharing the latest gossip, “but Stiles is actually going to start dating a guy, and in ten days he’ll have him running for the hills.”

“Oh, and how do you plan to do that?” Blake turns back to Stiles, “You look like you’ve got men running toward you, not away.”

“There’s a book on it, actually, by Michele Alexander titled _The Universal Don’ts of Dating_ ,” Stiles starts, using his trivia to brainstorm a plan of action, deciding on research methods for later in his apartment, “It was written for a female audience, and it contains a bunch of stereotypical generalizations as to how to lose a guy.”

Shifting his gaze to the outside world, Stiles ponders a bit as he rubs his beard (read: sparse whiskers), lowers his voice with thought, “It’s actually quite sexist toward men by implying they’re all so shallow. And toward women for implying they should want to please men.”

The Wolfe-Mann Advertising ladies are looking at him oddly, Blake slightly staggered and Pearson just dumbstruck. And Stiles can almost feel himself physically retreating.

Lydia redraws their attention, hands struck once together as she passes off the panic in her eyes as excitement. “It will be _incredibly_ tantalizing,” she discloses in what reminds Stiles of a ‘ _Did everyone try the chicken? I thought the chicken was lovely_ ’ save.

Soon enough Lydia is dismissing Allison, Scott, and Stiles, prattling on about business prospects, so the three make their way to their cubicles, Scott ducking out for more sleep after agreeing to meet up at 7:00 for Funky Buddha.

Having had his mind otherwise occupied, Stiles is hit with dejection once he takes his seat, defeated as he adds another one of his pieces into his ‘Future Articles’ file, which might as well be labeled ‘Rejected Articles’.

Stiles fleetingly wonders how long Allison has been watching him, because as soon as his head falls into his hands she is at his side. “So I’ve got a bit of a surprise.”

He takes a deep breath in through his nose, out through his mouth before resting his chin on a hand and offering a half-smile for Allison to go on.

“Erica gave me tickets for the second Yankees versus Giants game. You’re coming with me.”

Stiles had heard the Giants made it to the championship, but he doesn’t keep up much with sports since he can’t watch with his dad anymore. “Oh my God, are you sure you want to invite me?”

“You’re one of my only friends that likes baseball,” she reasons. “It’ll be fun, Stiles, and – if nothing else – we can just people watch.”

He waits a moment, thinks it over. He wishes he could watch the game at his dad’s house with a cold beer, but he’s only been to a few major league games before, and none of those were part of the championship. “You can stop twisting my arm, Alli!”

**

The lights are dimmed, and they’re doing nothing to ease Derek’s burgeoning claustrophobia. It’s pre-show jitters that leave him with sweaty palms and jumping knees. It’s the fact that he has the chance to make the biggest pitch of his life for his place of employment, and if he _does_ get the go ahead he _can’t_ fuck it up.

He wants to punch something. Or just shed his human skin for a little while.

Derek tries to focus on anything other than his nerves, the music relatively low in the background, the seating area of Funky Buddha only slightly elevated from the dance floor and bar. It’s not a whole lot quieter on the upper level, but the sole light fixtures being those dangling over each individual table adds to the air of intimacy.

Despite his integral bias towards the establishment due to his involvement in creating their adverts, Derek truly does enjoy Funky Buddha, the atmosphere usually pleasant, cool. He supposes he’s the only one emitting negative vibes, so he sits up straighter and vows to get a grip on his confidence just as Erica enters into sight.

It only takes a discreet wave to get his beta’s attention, and then Derek is cupping Erica’s bicep in greeting. “Alright?”

Erica snorts, pats Derek’s shoulder. “I’m good, Derek. Couldn’t say the same for you though, huh?”

Derek lets his expression tighten, hands shoving into his pockets. “You’re not staying here if you’re going to harass me.”

“Chill out,” Erica shakes her head, seems incredibly unrepentant. “I don’t want you any further wound up, thanks.”

Derek rolls his eyes.

A laugh is all he gets in return, Erica turning to scan Funky Buddha’s crowd before gesturing for Derek to sit back down. “You’ve got this, Derek. You could pitch to the Dilaurentis just as well as Lips & Hips if not better than. Plus, it was your tip that they were looking for a new ad agency, so you deserve it.”

Although brash at times and a bit snarky, gaining Erica’s vote speaks volumes to Derek because she knows how to play her cards, and she never bets unless she knows she’ll win.

Also, the inside joke of his tag team rivals has a chuff escaping, which relaxes his shoulders. (Jennifer’s experience as a dancer has thickened her hips, and Braeden’s pout is substantial enough to put the Jenners’ to shame.)

He’s reasonably calmed and on his second glass of champagne by the time Laura, Blake, Pearson, and – Jesus _Christ_ – fucking Peter arrive. Laura looks pleasantly surprised while Blake shoots daggers at him with her eyes, Pearson just slightly less annoyed. Peter comes off as all-knowing sporting an infuriating smirk.

With a nod from Erica, both wolves stand to greet the quartet.

“Fancy seeing you here.” Laura shakes Derek’s hand, obviously waiting for an explanation regarding his appearance.

“Fancy seeing _Peter_ here,” Derek grumbles.

“Oh, how lovely to see my darling nephew,” Peter simpers from slightly behind Laura. At least he’s not controlling the reigns tonight for Wolfe-Mann.

“What are _you_ doing here?” is the first thing Blake decides to spit at Erica, obviously ignoring Derek.

“Moral support.” Erica sneers before falling back down heavily and gulping down her champagne.

Derek takes a breath, swears to God almighty that if Erica starts a fight he’s not backing her up. He furrows his eyebrows at her before letting his facial muscles relax and switching to business. “It was my tip that Dilaurentis was looking for a new firm. I deserve to be here. I made the first move in following Dilaurentis business plans, so now I’m here to secure that Wolfe-Mann Advertising will be working with them.”

A jerk of the chin. “Well, as much as it’s nice to see you, Derek,” Laura takes a seat as well, Derek, Blake, and Pearson following, “these women have more experience in the jewelry aspect of advertising. Dilaurentis would be our biggest account to date, and it would be a hell of a statement to gain them.”

“Yes, Laura,” Derek nods, nerves slipping away the longer his sister goes without coddling him. “I’ve done my research, and Dilaurentis Diamonds is annual advertising billings of 50 to 60 million dollars that I believe I’ll be able to procure to our agency.”

Derek glances to Blake and Pearson, Blake burning his crops with the fire in her eyes. But Laura has her head tilted while she drapes a cloth napkin in her lap. Peter is expressionless, bored, maybe.

Known for low-key sexism and uncreative ideas, Peter was born at the top of the company instead of having earned the spot. Derek’s learned in his six years with Wolfe-Mann Advertising to suck up to the boss just enough to gain the momentum to ride the wave of success safely back to shore. When to let the sharks graze and when to let his competitors crash in a too-big wave. It’s strategy and it’s intuition, and Derek is proud to say he’s gotten himself thus far in the game.

Swallowing, Derek begins his mini pitch: “The Diamond Industry focuses on women. It says that _she_ ’s got to have the perfect ring from _him_. But what happens when women stop buying into the narrative that they have to have men to make their dreams come true? What if women just want to treat themselves every once in a while? _Or_ ,” Derek emphasizes as he gets to the crux of his spiel, fingers interlocked over the table as he tilts his chin down to stare at Laura, “What if men want diamonds too? They say a diamond is forever; we say a diamond is for everyone.”

Laura lets half of her mouth curl into a smile as he folds her arms over her chest and leans back. “Continue.”

“Objection,” Blake cuts in. “’A Diamond Is for Everyone’ says that diamonds are in supply, and if the supply is so vast, where is the demand? Besides,” she digresses with a smirk and a rigid back, “Since when do you know anything about women? Or men for that matter?”

Derek fights to leave his eyes unrolled. It’s just like Jennifer Blake to try and hit a low blow, and it’s just like Jennifer Blake to strike out.

“First of all, I _am_ a man, Jennifer,” he disparages.

But the woman is ignoring him in favor of heading her own pitch. “Diamonds equate to status. When you give a woman status she feels empowered and sexy. What better way to make a woman fall in love?” She grins, repositions her shoulders as if she’s just won.

“Why does it have to be about a man making a woman fall in love with him? Diamonds may represent status and everlasting love, but just gifting jewelry won’t _make_ anyone fall in love.” Derek glances to Erica for support and gets a ponderous look in return, so he continues before either Blake or Pearson can work a new angle. “Gifting a diamond is merely an expression of love that is already there, and a woman in love is already empowered. Diamonds represent love, not create it.”

“I beg to differ, Hale,” Pearson argues. “People fall in love with status, wealth, and power every day.”

Derek sees Erica shrug out of the corner of his eye. Laura seems intrigued by what’s been said so far as not to comment, so Derek sighs before, “I’m not talking about sugardaddy love. Yes, diamonds can create an illusion of love, but it’s just that – an illusion. It’s not real. And what do people do when they realize something isn’t real? They don’t buy it.”

“Once again,” Blake’s tone shifts deeper, and Derek half expects her hand to slam down on the table, “what do you know about real love?”

 _Once again_ , Derek thinks mockingly, Blake swings and misses at personal hits. “Look, Jennifer; I’m trying to keep this professional. Just because ‘real love’ is foreign to you doesn’t mean it’s not, in fact, _real_. I know you don’t like me because I swerved on you, but I think it’s really time to grow up.”

(Erica can no longer contain her giggles at this point, was likely amused first by someone challenging Derek, then by Derek using the term ‘sugardaddy’ so loosely, and finally by Derek saying ‘swerved.’ She acts like Derek is geriatric and doesn’t know what the internet is.)

“Oh,” Blake leans back with wide eyes and an open mouth, “so you’re saying you’re just the catch of the party? That everybody wants you?”

And Derek’s mind is blown, honestly. He is completely baffled as to how the woman in front of him has come to that conclusion based on what he’s said up until now. Derek looks to his beta in a last ditch effort to find any sort of reason to Blake’s response, but what he gets instead is a calm Erica looking straight at Blake. “Well, it’s not untrue.”

In a moment of clarity Derek realizes he’s most likely giving Jennifer just what she wants by not being able to come up with a proper response. She wants him to crash and burn in front of Laura and Peter, to lose his cool by either growing angry or falling dumbstruck. She’s trying to prove he’s not an adequate businessman in selling himself or his product.

Masking his emotions, screening irrational thoughts, Derek bites right back: “Selling myself gets me one step closer to selling my product, doesn’t it? I suppose that’s why my success in pitching is so rampant.”

His slick grin has Blake epitomizing the saying ‘if looks could kill’. Because she’s never taken well to losing, or at least being evenly matched. (Which is probably why she chose to team up with Braeden Pearson whose outshining quality is greed alongside a blank personality.)

(Which, in hindsight, is probably why she tried to latch onto Derek as soon as he proved himself groomed for the top of the company. Keep your enemies close and all.)

“That’s very true,” Laura finally speaks up, “It’s much easier to sell something when your client loves you. They almost don’t even care for the product once they’re sold on the seller.”

Derek is formulating his next point when he notices Blake’s gaze sweeping the crowd on the lower level, honing in on something before she looks to Derek. There’s a glint in her eyes, but otherwise her expression is set for the kill.

“I’d like to see you in action, Hale.” She’s solid and she’s still. This is no longer Blake testing out Achilles’ Heels. This is Blake propositioning all she’s got. _This_ is Blake in business mode. “If you’re able to make a man fall in love with you by the Astor Museum party, then I’ll let you pitch to the Dilaurentis.”

Derek’s first instinct is to question Blake as to why she thinks she has final say in who gets the Diamond account, but then Peter is slow clapping it out, proving himself to be the most annoying competitor in attendance. “Now _that_ is an interesting proposition.” He straightens his tie a bit. “Either one of you I deem fit for the Dilaurentis. Now, my first choice was Blake and Pearson, but you, Derek, have drive.”

His second thought is: “You mean the party we’re co-hosting for the Dilaurentis in just over a week?”

Blake smiles, nods, “Yes. Do you think you’re _that_ alluring? That anyone will stay once they realize what’s underneath your pretty face?” She licks her teeth knowingly, leers.

“It’s a challenge I won’t lose,” Derek’s narrowed eyes answer, his wolf prepared to defend itself against threats. “Why a man?”

Blake’s smile slides into a smirk at that. “We all know that ladies are compelled by you, but I’ve yet to hear of your male escapades. That would be the true feat.”

And Derek wavers at that. Because, well –

“I’d like to have a word with Derek, yes?” Erica stands abruptly, cutting the surmounting tension that in all honesty may only be apparent to Derek’s rigged subconscious.

Blake takes a moment, waves her hand in agreement, but Erica doesn’t see it because she’s already gripping Derek’s bicep and dragging him away from the table. “Are you sure about this, Alpha?” Erica asks just meters away from their table, up against a wall behind the lower squared off bar.

Derek’s wolf prickles further at his beta’s lack of confidence. His fists tighten up, tone harsh. “Do you not think I could? By the way Blake is still obsessed with me, I doubt I’ll have any trouble finding some twink to latch onto me–“

“That’s not what I meant, Derek,” Erica cuts him off lest Derek continue rambling to the point of shifting. “ _I_ know you have men tripping all over themselves to get to you, but I don’t know what Blake is playing at here.”

Already in a negative headspace, Derek continues his downward spiral with, “It doesn’t matter now that she’s denounced werewolves, Erica! My wolf is willing to tear her throat out!“

“ _Exactly_ ,” Erica places her hands on Derek’s shoulders, “She’s gotten you pissed so that you’ll make a rash decision.”

Derek growls, jerks away from Erica’s touch so that he can think this through on his own, dammit. A crowded bar is not an ideal place to ‘think things through,’ because all his brain can surmise is Blake’s ugly smirk and Peter’s annoying presence and the fact that this is an opportunity to prove himself that he would be stupid to waste.

“I’m not going to lose,” he finally grits out, much more hostile than planned, but time is ticking.

Erica follows Derek stiffly, silently back to the table after acquiescing with a nod.

Derek waits until expectant eyes are back on him to speak. “Alright, I’m game,” he tells Blake with determination, skirts his eyes over Pearson and Laura.

A slow smile smears over Blake’s face. “One more thing,” she adds as if she’s already won, “I get to choose someone from this bar for you.”

Derek’s smart enough to realizs she’s playing the upper hand, but what exactly it is he doesn’t know. “Fine.”

All five of them take a moment to scan Funky Buddha, but Derek’s more focused on his enraged wolf internally than anything else, which is spooked by all things Blake and guarding against chasing after anyone that isn’t mating material.

Maybe the latter anxiousness won’t be a worry, though, because Blake gestures toward a man in the middle of the lower level that has Derek losing oxygen. Dark hair and a plaid dress shirt, the chosen one is laughing with a man and a woman as his button nose scrunches breathtakingly. Beauty marks hand-painted by the gods with an aura of confidence, composure, Derek can already tell five seconds in that he’s got it bad, and his wolf is purring with interest.

So Derek swallows the last of his champagne, sets his flute down with a _clack_. Because half of gaining influence is making people believe you already have power, and he’s an Alpha, goddammit. And he can’t turn back now. “Deal.”

**

Funky Buddha is one of the classier bars located in Manhattan, and Stiles can appreciate that greatly since he’d like to pull a man that won’t drink himself to sleep every night or try some illicit game of stalking once the dating ends however it may.

The only downside to the establishment is that it hosts quite a few exclusive date nights, which Stiles finds out when the man he’s chatting with introduces his wife at her return from the restroom. To be fair, no straight man carries himself like that, but Stiles isn’t trying to take on a closet case with his time limitation.

Excusing himself awkwardly, Stiles is on his way to regroup with Scott and Allison when he’s intercepted by a solid, heated body, literally stumbling backward with the rough impact. Neat facial hair and a veiny neck bewitch him until he refocuses, ready to excuse the man that ran into him.

What he’s met with instead isn’t a half-assed apology or a drunken stumbler, though. His attacker is statue-esque with bushy eyebrows and a jarring glare that prompts Stiles to back up out of the man’s line of sight, ready to tactfully disappear into the crowd.

But then the man blurts out, “Are you legal?” with the still-present scowl.

Stiles is confrontational when provoked, for one, and stupid, for two, so he jibes, “It doesn’t look like your type would care either way.”

Oh, look: a less-intimidating-but-still-unpleasant frown. “I want to buy you a drink.”

All puffed up to reject the man on principle alone, that pesky little voice in Stiles’ head reminds him why he’s out and about tonight at all, so he pauses. The man in front of him is probably looking for a lay, so that means the chances of him hunting Stiles down when they inevitably end things is slim. 

Stiles then takes a few seconds to do inventory on the man. With a dark sport coat framing a white button-up, the guy looks totally fuckable. And his thick watch spells out money, which is a bonus since Stiles doesn’t plan on paying for his own shit if they’re fake-dating. Overall, Mr. Mean looks to be one of those uppity dudes back in school that always deemed themselves the shit, and Stiles has never been attracted to that sort considering how often they bullied him.

But the dude is hot, _okay_? Sue Stiles for wanting a piece of that. “That can be arranged,” Stiles tilts his head minutely, steps closer to offer his right hand. “Stiles Stilinski.”

“Derek Hale,” the man rushes out, firmly grasps Stiles’ hand as his features mellow out slightly in what could pass for relief.

Mr. Hale must be some sort of businessman with a shake like that, and Stiles would really like to see what else he can do with those thick fingers, so he draws even closer to set a palm over Derek’s heart, gazes up through his lashes. “You wanna get out of here? Maybe somewhere quieter.”

Right away Derek’s features straighten back up, but he does paw at Stiles hip. “Do you have any allergies?”

“Er –” Stiles stumbles slightly, is more accustomed to precursor questions about being clean, and that’s if they ask at all – “I don’t think so? Latex is fine, at least,” he shrugs.

A bizarre expression furrows Derek’s brows, and then Stiles is suddenly blushing, and Derek is showing his first definite emotion of the night, aha! “I’m taking you out to dinner, Stiles,” he smirks crookedly.

“I knew that!” Stiles all but squeaks. “I was just joking, jeez; where’s your sense of humor?”

Eyebrows raise because they have a mind of their own and don’t believe Stiles at all, are pretty unimpressed.

“I love food!” Stiles chirps loud enough for half the bar to become privy to the fact, probably.

“Alright, Stiles,” Derek squeezes his hip one more time teasingly, angles them towards the exit with a hand on Stiles’ lower back. “Should you be telling anyone that you’re leaving?”

Stiles refuses to be ashamed that he’d momentarily forgotten his friends (those rude eyebrows paired with that rudely attractive face have given him whiplash, okay!?), but when he looks around he can see neither Scott nor Allison. “I’ll just text them,” he shrugs.

Derek nods at that before promptly turning around and making his way to the exit.

The chilled evening air clears Stiles' head, allows him to begin formulating a plan of action of how best to hook Derek before dropping him, but then the guy is showing him to a sleek Ducati, and, yeah – Stiles was right about Mr. Hale having money.

“Woke up in a new Ducati?” is all Stiles allows, tipping back on his heels with his hands in his pockets and brow high.

Eyebrows huddle together, but Derek’ lips quirk up slightly, so Stiles counts it a win.

“You sure I don’t have to sign a prenup to ride this thing? Maybe a waiver in case of damage?” Stiles half jokes as he fingers the helmet in his hands.

Derek’s perched leisurely against his motorcycle, unimpressed amusement dancing across his features. “How hard are you planning to ride?”

The innuendo isn’t lost on Stiles, and neither is the flush that storms the very peak of his cheeks. And he can’t decide if he’s more mortified that he’s got no quip soon enough or that he so easily lets himself be drawn into the V of Derek’s legs so the man can settle the helmet on his head.

“That’s it,” Derek’s voice is surprisingly soft, coaxing as Stiles is forced to lift his head with the buckle fastened to his jaw. Stiles would swear to a gentle finger tracing the apple of his cheek, but all too swiftly Derek is straddling his motorcycle.

Stiles doesn’t have many reserves in climbing onto the bike, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t take his sweet ass time in getting situated, lightly gripping Derek’s waist. Catching his gaze in the side mirror, “How come I got stuck with the goofy helmet?” is the first thing out of Stiles' mouth, quite petulant.

Derek harumphs. “My friend got it for me.”

“You didn’t deny its ugliness!” Stiles begins to argue, but his voice is lost in the start-up of the engine, Derek revving just for show.

The fluorescent lights of traffic flow by relatively easily as Stiles rolls his eyes, wraps his arms all the way around Derek’s middle because, despite his joking, it’s known that there’s no seatbelt on a motorcycle. “Alright, Mr. Hale,” he starts, “I’m getting hungry.”

——

They end up at a high-end restaurant Stiles is loath to admit he can’t pronounce at first glance. _Sushi Nakazawa_ is spelled out on an awning, the whole establishment rather undersized compared to the number it appears to hold on the inside. It’s cleanly contemporary, and the fact that Stiles has never graced the site just further goes to show its expense is above a medial paygrade.

But Derek seems oblivious as ever to the fact that the restaurant is packed as he settles the bike across the street, reticent as ever as he easily steadies the teeter with his feet.

“Um,” Stiles starts rather eloquently, “Shouldn’t we need reservations?” He hasn’t gotten off the bike even though he’s sure that’s what his acquaintance is waiting on.

Derek merely taps on Stiles' arm around his waist to let him know he’s okay to let go. “I’ve done business with the owners. They like me,” he shrugs, “and I’ve got one no-reservations night to spend.”

Staring fear in the eye, as it turns out, is easier said than done. Which is ridiculous to think, because Stiles has been turned down an article quite a many times, mocked for his nerdiness too often to count, and punched in the gut at least a five finger-count for his sexual preferences. This, though, is a new breed of anxiety: it’s a combination of all of his stressors that revolve around not being well-off enough to impress someone and likely failing an assignment because of it.

He’s about to say something, he swears it, but then Derek is propping up the Ducati while Stiles is still on, easily unwrapping the tight lock of fingers around his waist to prompt Stiles in getting off.

Derek sits sidesaddle on his motorcycle once again, his widened stance creating a snug cocoon for Stiles as he subconsciously allows his suitor to de-helmet him, eyes taking in the vibrancy of the location.

Stiles runs his hand through his flattened hair, the knowledge of it being fucked only adding to his hindrances in feeling comfortable.

Heavy fingers on his jaw draw Stiles' gaze, Derek smiling warmly with, “What’s wrong, Stiles?”

And somewhere in the back of his mind he figures he should respond to his date, but the sturdy grip steadies his whirling thoughts, and sinking into the caress while studying Derek’s shirt is deemed a lot more pleasant than trying to put his thoughts into a logical sentence.

“You didn’t tell me you didn’t like sushi,” Derek’s features scrunch up, and he sounds irritated, but his unencumbered fingers are fiddling with his keys as he glances around the perimeter instead of keeping Stiles' gaze, so he might just be mad at himself. “I could’ve taken you somewhere else if you would’ve told me.”

The rambling shocks Stiles out of his daze, reminds him that this is business, and at least Derek makes it easy not to like him so readily. So he straightens, backing away to let the night air chill the skin that was once warm against the cup of Derek’s palm and the muscle of his thighs. “I do like sushi, I just don’t know if I’m dressed for it,” is what comes out of his mouth a bit sharply.

If Mr. Hale is taken aback at all in the change of demeanor then his brows hide it well. “You look fine, Stiles,” he assures, but actions speak louder than words, and Derek smoothing his own dress shirt to appear smarter counteracts his attempt at reasoning.

Stiles, through with appearing inadequate to the situation, levels a scowl to Derek as if to communicate that he’s not so easily won over, especially with such weak argument.

Even further annoyed, Derek sports an even harsher frown, seemingly formulating some type of solution as he tilts his head. A flash of a smirk reveals itself not five seconds later. Smugness, as it turns out, is actually quite becoming on Mr. Hale’s features. “Here,” he finalizes with a pivot to rifle through the compartment under his seat.

Stiles is promptly adorned in a comfy black scarf. And, “Is this Alexander McQueen?” He knows his tone is hushed with veneration, and he mentally kicks himself for it. Damn his colleagues for creating him into a slightly more fashion-conscious man.

His consort shrugs again, crosses his arms over his chest, biceps bulging, which, _rude_. “My sister-in-law likes gifting.”

“Oh, my God, I love this,” Stiles gushes, rubbing the smooth fabric between his fingers to reveal a skull print, but – “No, Derek, I’m bound to stain this. I’m like a magnet for disaster”

Derek chuckles lowly, eyes him steadily before shaking his head, unbuttoning Stiles’ shirt to reveal a thankfully white undershirt. “It’s fine. You’ll look like an art hoe.”

Stiles snorts, lets the man dress him. And he’s sure he looks a fool as he primps himself, arranging the accessory nicely over his plaid button-up and the hole in his solid shirt, but Derek chooses to palm the bottom of his spine, lead him forward instead of commenting further.

——

Twenty minutes later, Stiles actually finds himself enjoying the date despite his uneasiness toward his correct assumptions of the restaurant being a bit cost-heavy. Luckily, their timing is rather perfect seeing as it doesn’t interfere with anyone else’s reservations.

They’re nestled in the back left corner of Sushi Nakazawa, the dining area well-lit and inviting laughter soft from all angles, decorative plates drawing Stiles' artistic interest. He’s been idly sipping on his water in between tentative tastes of whatever Riesling wine Derek ordered.

“So, Stilinski?” Derek questions the name. “Is that…”

Stiles nearly rolls his eyes. “Polish.”

Lighting up a bit, Derek says, “ _Czy znasz polski_?” with a tiny smile on his face.

“ _Tak. Jestem zaskoczony, że wiesz, jak o to zapytać_ ,” Stiles lets himself grin back slyly.

Derek smirks, obviously pleased with himself, before downing his own wine. “I’ve got lineage from multiple countries in Europe, and I spent a couple years in Germany for University.”

“Wow,” Stiles lets himself be truly intrigued despite the fact that a half-blind rat could’ve concluded that Derek is white, “I’ve visited Poland twice for family but haven’t been back since before college.”

There’s a considering look on Derek’s face, but the deliverance of the house soup gives reason to sideline small talk.

After Stiles' mouth is done watering over a blend of spices he can’t dream to name, he gets down to business with a napkin to his mouth, a lick over his teeth. “So, what do you do for a living, Mr. Hale?”

Derek actually further enlivens with the question, thank _God_. “I’m an advertising executive,” Derek answers, maintaining easy eye contact in between a swallow of his wine. “I work mostly with alcoholic beverages and sports equipment companies for the time being, but I’m planning on breaking into the diamond industry.”

 _That definitely explains his wealth_ , Stiles can’t help but connect dots in his brain as he lowers his eyes to study his soup. “And how long have you been in the business?”

When Stiles glances back up Derek is taking a spoonful of his own course, patting his cloth napkin to the corner of his mouth before looking out the window to presumably corral numbers. “I’ll hit twenty-seven in November, so I guess I’ve been at it for around six years.” He nods his head. “And you?”

“Majored in journalism and minored in visual arts,” Stiles offers, ticking off what needs to be introduced while he holds his elbows and props at the edge of the table. After a second of deliberation, Stiles decides it’s probably in his best interest to smudge his work details for obvious reasons. But, “I turned twenty-four in January, and I write for _Prestige Magazine_.”

Derek allows himself to appear impressed, and Stiles is probably a bit too pleased by that (and he tells himself it’s because he’s finally cracked Derek Hale’s armor, not because the man looks so handsome when his brows are tame). “Oh, yeah? How do you like working there?”

Stiles tries to maintain a low-decibel sigh, relieved to steer clear of the topic of his column yet burdened by his sluggish career development. With a soft half-smile and cupped chin, he stares out the window. “My boss is a bit… difficult,” he settles on, shrugging as he looks back to Derek.

“Would it help if I told you that my boss is a bit of an entitled asshole?” Derek tries, miming Stiles in leaning forward on his elbow.

Stiles huffs a dry laugh, blinks lazily because soup always seems to make him drowsy. “If I play it her way for a while I’ll eventually be able to branch into topics I actually care about, so there’s that.”

“Oh? And what would those topics be?” Derek tilts his head yet again, dark eyes compelling. And there’s a tease in his tone that has Stiles on the defense, but, at the same time, Derek truly does appear intrigued, earnest in owning his desire to know Stiles. Which is honestly suspicious considering his default attitude has been grouchy all night.

And Stiles will forever thank their waiter for choosing this moment to interrupt their conversation, sushi roll bedazzled as it creates a wake between the two bodies of more than a foot. Because he needs to stay on track. He needs to hook Derek, but he can’t afford to go down with the sinker.

Once the waiter is gone Stiles holds off on his response until Derek’s got a few pieces of sushi on his plate. “We’ll see if you stick around long enough to find out.”

——

“Would you fuck on the first date?”

No pretenses, no time for greeting. Because the cheque only takes so long to pay, and a restroom so fanciful only remains vacant for so long.

“ _What?_ ” Scott rushes, voice overpowered by the chatter and music from Funky Buddha, which Stiles assumes his friends are still occupying.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Stiles sighs out as he stares himself down the mirror, the dim lighting of the restaurant’s lavatory almost sinister with its yellow tint. He needs a game plan, and he’s honestly not sure if it should start with him seducing Derek or remaining chaste for now.

Because he doesn’t _do_ this, and the inexperienced indecision tossing around inside his brain is making his fingers dance apprehensively, blood pressure surely rising.

“I’m with Derek. Dinner is almost over, and I have no clue if I should sleep with him or not.” When Stiles feels trapped he gets panicky, and he’s quite pleased with himself that he’s able to get that clear of an informative sentence across the tinny service of his phone.

“Who’s Derek? You left?” Scott slurs slightly, mind sounding otherwise occupied.

And _fuck_ : Stiles never texted Scott and Alli to let them know he found a guy. He turns on a flow of water from the sink just to give himself a bit of background noise, and then he runs his hand under it, dabs it over his eyes.

Before he can answer, there’s a bit of commotion on the line, and then Allison begins rambling: “We ran into Erica, and he said he saw you leave. Did you find a guy? What’s he like? Where’d you go?”

“ _He went to fuck him_!” Scott informs a bit crudely in the background.

Stiles cuts off the loud cackling in his ear abruptly, pushing air out through his nose in efforts to compose himself. Efficiently, he runs through possible scenarios in his mind on how best to make Derek tick. On the presumption that this is more a one night stand than anything, Stiles mentally prepares himself to put out tonight and then badger Derek for as long as it takes to be formally dumped.

He types a relatively brief description of Derek out to his group message with Allison and Scott:

> Name: Derek  
>  Age: 26  
>  Occupation: Advertising Executive  
>  Interests: Conveying emotions with only his eyebrows!!!!!

  
Channeling his energy into momentum to get this show on the road, Stiles pushes off of the restroom counter and out into the hallway. A pause to fall into character later, Stiles is making his way back to Derek, shoulders back and demeanor nonchalant.

Derek is nevertheless pleased to see Stiles, small smile genuine as he leads Stiles to the exit with a palm to his spine. It’s a bit astounding how much Derek’s personality warmed up from the beginning of the evening, and Stiles is even more eager to spend the rest of the night with him.

They’re intercepted before they can actually exit, though, and Stiles realizes just how out of his element he is upon having to smile politely – albeit shyly – at a business associate or whatever of Derek’s. Tuck his chin and angle himself behind Derek awkwardly is all Stiles does until about a minute in of conversing when Derek’s heavy paw soothes his hip, helps Stiles to curl into Derek’s side with eased exhales.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Derek hushes to Stiles' ear when he finally finds an exit in the conversation, “Networking and such.”

Embarrassingly, Stiles' stomach flutters at the pet name. And even the nipping wind outside does little to focus him, but at least his coloration can be blamed on the weather.

“Should we hail you a cab? Or I could drive you home, maybe?” Derek offers with a soft smile and hands stuffed in his pockets.

Figuring coy will work best in his current predicament, Stiles eases closer to Derek, titling his head to gaze through his lashes as he softens, “ _Or_ you could show me your place.”

Derek smirks at that, but it’s more playful than provocative. “And what would we do there?”

Stiles presses flush to Derek, snuggles into the crook of his neck so he can roll his eyes discreetly, wanting to get on with the night already. Thick fingers curve themselves around Stiles' waist – an embrace he only sinks further into with a delicate sigh.

“Hmm?” Derek prompts Stiles, obviously looking for a fight.

“Warm up,” is what Stiles mutters, because it’s not untrue, and it’s the first thing that comes to mind as he runs his ice-tipped nose down Derek’s neck, grips into his shirt tighter with gentled lips a heated apology to the trail.

“Stiles…” Derek cautions. His voice wavers, though, and his neck must be extremely sensitive.

In fact, Stiles feels a shiver runs down Derek’s spine, giddiness welling up inside himself at the slight thrill, and he uses the adrenaline to snake his tongue out over Derek’s supple skin, sucks lightly over his chosen spot.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek emphasizes gruffly, apparently to deaf ears.

The temperature only drowsing Stiles further, he doesn’t quite register the fact that he’s fashioning a mark until he draws back slightly after a last lave of his tongue. Pleased, he nuzzles closer to place a peck to the love-bite, but then –

“It’s a work night for me, babe,” Derek sighs, seemingly genuinely reluctant to wiggle space between the two.

Inexplicably put off by losing the stretch of skin, Stiles crosses his arms, brows drooping to smart, “Well this ass is about to take off for vacation, so it’s now or never.”

Taken aback, Derek quickly recovers, features relaxing and steadying all at once as he draws Stiles closer, leans back on his bike like he’s so fond of. “Please don’t grow angry with me, baby,” Derek grips Stiles' chin firmly, “I’d love to see you again, but I’ve got a big pitch that needs buffing tomorrow.”

Stiles only grumbles in response, increasingly embarrassed by his prior antics now that the spaced proximity of _Derek_ is less intoxicating. One arm winds itself around his waist while the other cups his cheek, and he knows his face is flushing.

“None of that, now,” Derek ascertains, assumedly speaking on Stiles' closing off. “What’ve you got going on tomorrow night?”

Good. Something to focus on. Stiles is about to say _nothing_ , because his schedule is extremely fluid, but then he remembers telling Allison he’d go to the game with her, and he really can’t help the groan that lets out. “I’ve got a game to catch,” he verbalizes, features scrunching slightly at the distaste.

Derek loosens his grip, trails his hands down to Stiles' thighs to rest against his own legs where Stiles is stood. “And what game is that?”

“Yankees.”

Derek’s face lights up at that, a child on Christmas. “Damn! I wish I could’ve snagged some seats.”

A bit startled by Derek’s enthusiasm and pleased by a shared interest, even, Stiles admits, “I haven’t been to a game in a while, so I’m buzzing.”

“Me neither. I’d enjoy it quite well,” Derek grins, pats Stiles’ thigh. “If your friend doesn’t feel up to accompanying you, let me know,” he finishes, cheeky smile prominent to reveal those cute bunny teeth Stiles kept getting glimpses at throughout dinner.

“Maybe I’ll ask her about it in the morning. Too bad you’re not giving me much to remember, though,” Stiles sneers, hands dropping dangerously close to Derek’s crotch in reference.

Derek breaths out harshly, steels his jaw, and Stiles can’t help the hitch in his breathing when Derek’s warm paws grip just below his ass, butterflies moshing in his stomach. “I’ll be so good to you when the timing’s right, baby, but I don’t want complaints on scheduling I can’t fix.”

A light smack on his ass has Stiles yipping embarrassingly, automatically cocooning back into Derek’s neck. He inhales Derek’s scent of pine and citrus, calms himself to nod into his neck.

The goofy helmet is being settled on Stiles' head after Derek presses a chaste kiss to his jaw, no more words exchanged between the two besides Stiles mumbling his address.

——

Despite having only ridden for ten minutes, and despite tucking his face into Derek’s shoulder, Stiles' skin is tingling from the wind, and he can feel his eyes watering as Derek settles his feet to the street outside Stiles' apartment.

“Beautiful,” Derek murmurs, thumbs Stiles' cheek once he’s off of the motorcycle.

And he doesn’t exactly plan it, but – “This is what I’d look like with your cock down my throat.”

More amused than anything, Derek’s eyes seem to darken as he purses his lips. “ _Filthy_ mouth, little one.” His thumb prods Stiles' lower lip before he pulls back, suddenly business. “Can I call you tomorrow?”

Stiles sanctions, rattles off his phone number as he unfastens his helmet.

Just before he turns away, though, Derek catches his chin, holds it steady between forefinger and thumb, tilts it up slightly. His eyes are soft even with a leveled stare, tone sure. “Do I get a kiss?”

And Stiles realizes then what exactly gets him going about Derek. It’s the way he’s so confident, knows what he’s doing and isn’t ashamed about it yet has softened sickeningly for Stiles. And Stiles can’t afford to get caught up in the aftermath of Derek Hale. So he reaches to cup the man’s neck, draws close as if to comply just to press into Derek’s frash hickey roughly before turning away without another glance.

Derek’s gasp is music to Stiles’ ears.


	2. Day Two

| _Thursday_ |

Perfecting the Diamond Pitch, as it turns out, is not top priority to Isaac so much as finding out about _how_ Derek got the go ahead.

“For the last time, Isaac,” Derek finalizes: “I am not fist-fighting my way to the top.”

Not for the first time, Derek is grateful that Wolfe-Mann Advertising has a relatively chill atmosphere – one that allows him to close his office door with no second glance. (Which he did as soon as he clocked in, eyeing Boyd’s burning gaze and Isaac’s wild eyes as indication of their animation waiting to break loose.)

“But you set a bet to make some poor dude fall ass-first for you.” Boyd states, hands gripping his chair as he rolls back and forth habitually, obviously amused.

Derek can only sigh out of exasperation, nearly planting his feet back on the ground for stability rather than leaning back with his shoes scuffing his desk. “If I can win him over in ten days then that shows I can win over a client, which proves to Laura that I’ll be able to sell our agency to the Dilaurentis.” And that’s all they need to know.

“Did you say his name is ‘Stiles’?” Isaac questions, seemingly having ignored half of whatever has fallen from Derek’s lips.

So Derek lets his hand drag down his face, really needing help from these two as colleagues more than as nosy betas right now. “Yes. Stiles Stilinski.”

“And you said he’s hot, yeah?”

“I did.” Succinct. Blunt.

“But you didn’t fuck him?”

“Isaac!” Derek growls, his limit of patience exceeded. “I didn’t want to stay out late because I’m stressing out over this pitch, and I didn’t want to give Stiles the impression that he’s just a one-off.”

His betas glance at each other.

Isaac’s eyes are wide.

Body shakes his head minutely.

Isaac busts out with, “How soon will we know if this is a potential Alpha-mate?”

Derek, well – “I think I’ll have to decide that first,” he barks, knows his face may be darkening as he closes off. Because maybe he has already thought about it, and maybe it just seems too good to be true.

“Fine, fine,” Boyd leans back in his own chair, obviously sensing Derek’s frayed nerves a live wire. “So when are you gunna see him again?”

Derek sets his feet back on the ground, leans over his desk in a motion he knows can’t be good for his spinal curvature. “Maybe tonight. He’s got tickets for the Yankees game, but I think he’s taking someone else.”

“Call him and find out,” Boyd suggests, blasé, as if implementing yourself into someone else’s plans isn’t considered rude.

“I want him to have a good time, not be forced to turn it into a date,” Derek grumbles, wolf raising its hackles at the notion that Stiles would prefer another’s company. It’s a tad self-depreciating, but Derek’s learned he’s not performing any favors by lying to himself.

Boyd only shakes his head, huffs out good-naturedly as if he’s correcting a child. “As soon as you call him I’ll help you go over logistics.”

**

“So he’s a sugardaddy?” Allison deadpans, flicking her gaze over her shoulder as she scrolls through Alexander McQueen’s website to find the scarf Stiles alluded to earlier.

Stiles doesn’t even try to conceal his eye-roll, cocks his hip as he waits for Allison to claim one of the coffees he went upstairs to order. “He’s not paying me to sleep with him, Alli.”

“Not _directly_ ,” she reasons as she goes back to browsing, “but with gifts like that –“

“It wasn’t a _gift_ , Allison,” Stiles snaps, incredibly crabby even as far as mornings go. “I just forgot to give it back after dinner.”

“Dinner at _Sushi Nakazawa_ , Stiles,” Allison finally turns around, grabs her coffee as she crosses one knee over the other and folds her hands neatly, “A four-star restaurant that takes reservations a month in advance.”

Stiles turns around to disguise his wince as he settles back into his workspace. Because he _knows_ ; he looked up the restaurant as soon as he got back home.

“You’ve found yourself with a comfy little dilemma,” she continues, unperturbed by Stiles' lack of care for the commentary.

Scott makes his entrance then, fist-bumping Stiles before leaning back against his cubicle. “Dilemma?”

“On whether or not he should continue with the assignment or actually date Derek.”

Stiles spits out his beverage, leaning forward in what was initially meant for dramatic flare but also prevents his shirt from getting stained. “ _What?_ ”

Allison only turns herself back around, rests her chin on her left hand while she continues her search for the damned scarf. “I know you, Stiles, and you wouldn’t be feeling so bad about the prospect of letting Derek treat you if it were only for the article.”

Instead of responding, Stiles takes the initiative in finding the scarf by rounding his way to Allison’s computer and looking it up on google images, following the money trail back to the sold out item on Alexander McQueen’s official page.

Nobody comments on the price ($350) even though Stiles is sure Scott is partially referencing it when he states “Nice.”

Saving him from further discomfort, a bit of a commotion coming from the company entrance garners the floor’s attention, delivery men carrying a rainbow of flowers. Stiles is fully interested to either find out whose anniversary it is or whose husband cheated on them until – “Delivery for Stilinski!” is shouted by the flower person.

Stiles can feel his face grow red as his lungs quit working momentarily. “Oh, my God!” he hollers back with what air he has left.

Unaware of Scott and Allison being excessively nosy, Stiles zeros in on the men coming his way. A voluminous display of red, pink, purple, orange, and green flowers all centered around a single white rose walks his direction as if in slow motion, settles on his desk, and he can only stare at it, barely looking up once Scott’s cackle begins drawing even more attention to his area.

Stiles promptly snatches a note from Scott’s hands that presumably came with the delivery, mumbling a hardly coherent ‘thanks’ to the deliverer past his wide grin as he cradles a surprisingly cute wolf plush as a last gift.

Scott’s still cracking up when Stiles cuts his eyes at him, Allison making herself useful in the chaos by signing off on the flowers, because at least _one_ of his friends takes him seriously. (Or as serious as one can be taken with a motherfucking fuzzy, wolf cub plush under their arm.)

“These are succulents!” Stiles proclaims, one hundred percent considers taking a victory lap with his prize, but there’s apprehension in his gut over what the note says, and Lord knows his patience is nonexistent.

> ” _S –_
> 
> _Red for romance,  
>  Pink for admiration,  
> Lavender for enchantment,  
> Salmon for excitement,  
> & White to tie them all together  
> with charm  
> to showcase pure intentions  
> and new beginnings._
> 
> _Beautiful they appear,  
>  yet none as vibrant as your personality,  
> nor as sweet as that ass._
> 
> _– D_ ” 

  
Immediately Stiles feels the effects of the poem on his disposition as he turns away from the relatively open floorplan, tucks his chin and strangles the damned stuffed animal to his chest as if it can defend him from unprecedented attention. But, _fuck_ , the toy smells like citrus and pine as if Derek had rubbed it all over himself.

In a last ditch effort to shed the giddiness cracking his bones, Stiles lays his heated cheek onto his cool desktop, more thankful for the glass surface than ever before.

A few minutes later (although it feels like seconds) Allison is rubbing circles between Stiles' shoulder blades, hushing, “Nobody’s looking, by the way. When the flowers first came in they were curious, but now they’re all playing Solitaire and shit.”

Stiles snorts at that, sitting back up slowly after a few moments to glance at Allison and a sheepish Scott. Probably about the whole hyena laugh thing he pulled. “I’m not embarrassed, just overwhelmed.”

His ringing cell startles him, and it takes about twice as long as usual to fumble his phone to his ear. “Hello?” Luckily, his voice doesn’t even sound shrill with nerves.

“Sweetheart,” Derek coos into Stiles' ear, tone emanating _security_ , “how’s your day been?”

Stiles doesn’t know whether to sink into the steadiness of Derek’s voice or spout off in excitement, but either way he’s impressed he can marshal so easily his feelings into any label more dignified than a muddle of biology.

“Nothing too noteworthy going on at the office today,” Stiles sighs heavily, leans back in his chair lazily to really get into character.

The line is silent for a moment. “Is that so?” Derek indulges him, though there’s a note of amusement in his tone.

“Mhm. You know what this place needs? Someone to be delivered flowers from a secret admirer,” Stiles snaps his fingers.

“That would be nice, huh?” Derek plays back.

Stiles is smiling stupidly, softens his voice, “Thank you, Derek. They’re beautiful. And I love that there are succulents. It’s perfect.”

“I know it’s nothing too big,” Derek says, voice all official as if if defending himself, “but it was a bit last minute. I just wanted to let you know that I enjoyed our date last night.”

Snorting, Stiles takes a moment to shake his head as if Derek can see him. “Nothing too big? Has anyone ever told you that it’s the thought that counts? In fact, you were such a sourwolf when you literally _ran into me_ at Funky Buddha that I’m amazed you’re capable of such thoughtfulness.”

“ _Sourwolf_?” Derek makes this weird sort of noise somewhere between a grumble and a sputter.

“You heard me, Hale!”

“It’s not like you were a big ball of sunshine yourself, Stilinski,” Derek grumbles half-jokingly it sounds like, “And I definitely wasn’t running.”

“I was accosted!” Stiles shouts, and then there’s a sudden flush to his face because at least a quarter of his floor had to have heard that. Bless his cubicle walls for shrouding his shame.

An actual, honest-to-God growl rumbles through Stiles’ phone, and it sends a chill down his spine.

Before Derek can reply, Stiles tries to settle the conversation: “I’m kidding, Derek. The stuffed animal is rather adorable.” Master of evasion. “And with that poem I can see how you’re quite well-off in your field.”

The growl mellows into a rumble, and after a few moments Derek actually chuckles. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” Stiles indulges, can’t help the smile tugging on his lips (although he won’t admit how pleased he is with the response) as he wheels around to motion for Allison’s attention. “I found the bit on my sweet ass especially charming.”

Stiles can sense the further change in demeanor as Derek lets out a throaty noise. “I was put under the impression that it’s rather worthwhile.” Something considerably more coquettish. 

“I’m just wondering,” Stiles digresses to abate his blush, although maybe that’s Derek whole agenda behind his spectacle, to get Stiles all swoony, “If this has anything to do with those World Series tickets.”

For a breath Derek is silent. Then, as if the line is practiced, “I want you to go with whoever you want to go with, Stiles.”

Rolling his eyes, Stiles scoffs, “You didn’t answer the question, but that’s okay because you’ve earned a second date. Anyways, I like a guy that goes after what he wants.”

More faint purr-like noises, “I’ll make you happy.”

These damn butterflies keep attacking Stiles’ stomach! Curse this parasitic relationship!

He allows idle chatter for a minute before asking Allison about her cares for the tickets and wrapping the conversation up. Derek is growing cocky, and that won’t do.

“Meet me at the 4th gate. Half-six. I suppose I can decide if you’ll get a taste of my sweet ass then.”

“It’s a date.”

——

It must be a Thing™ that Derek walks around with a semi-permanent scowl. The gate is crowded, but Derek could be the next big meme with the way his resting bitch face sticks out against the sea of raging baseball enthusiasts.

Or, hopefully it’s a Thing and not because Stiles is fifteen minutes late! Hah! Haha.

Derek’s eyes hone in on Stiles before he’s even made it to where the man is leaned against a light post, arms crossed, mouth frowning. But then an ear-splitting grin makeups Derek’s face as his stance loosens up, and Stiles is decidedly not any less nervous.

“I’m sorry!” Stiles caterwauls, arms flailing out and breathing rate raising, “Traffic! You know these pesky Bronx drivers!”

Unimpressed though amused reads Derek’s single lifted eyebrow.

Stiles folds under the pressure: “Okay, I couldn’t decide what to wear, happy?” He throws his hands up in defeat before they plant on his hips.

Derek loops an arm around Stiles waist, draws him in closer, but then like the flick of a switch his expression is void of any emotion and his hold is stiff. “Where’d you get that hoodie?”

“Oh, this old thing?” Stiles panics, which is stupid, but he can’t control his anxiety. “I borrowed it from my buddy Scott.”

It takes a moment for Derek’s eyebrows to dance a bit and land in a slightly furrowed fashion, lips pouting. “Let’s get to our seats, yeah?”

God, Derek looks so good in his performance shirt and cap. It’s nothing fancy, and neither is Stiles’ own hat and hoodie, but Derek completely outshines Stiles, which makes Stiles worry that he should have tried harder to look decent.

But, then, what’s the point? He’s supposed to be driving Derek away.

Stiles manages to clamp his mouth shut while they’re waived into the stadium if only to avoid stumbling over his feet or running into someone who wants a fight, but as soon as they’re sat down it’s word vomit. 

“I’ve got to be honest. I’m more of a Mets type of guy.” There. Relationship: over.

Derek’s mouth hangs open (which is even attractive on him, fuck) for a pause until another grin begins forming. “No shit?” His arm curls around Stiles’ shoulders

“Oh, yeah,” Stiles is perhaps more vehement than strictly necessary, head bobbing, “and the only reason I’m not wearing Giants merch is because I prefer the Dodgers.”

A slick smirk. “I agree one hundred percent,” Derek whispers his dirty little secret.

Even more noteworthy than the fact that Stiles didn’t just shorten his ten day time limit into two is this revelation: “Oh my, God,” he whispers back, “We are such fake fans.”

Derek laughs bright and loud, shakes his head and leans in closer, “I had my friend pick this up for me at Yankees Clubhouse today.”

Stiles cracks up.

——

As it turns out, just because Derek isn’t necessarily a fan of the Yankees doesn’t mean he doesn’t know his history. Which becomes apparent when he spends the whole night chatting it up with a friend of a friend and their mother. Literally. And figuratively, because there are a bunch of randos that he talks stats with as well.

None of it bothers Stiles per se. It’s just that he feels like his acquaintance drug him to an exclusive gathering where he knows nothing and no one when Stiles was under the impression that they were supposed to be on a date.

But it’s whatever. Let Derek bro it up with the frat dude whose rich daddy got him the most expensive seats.

O _kay_. So maybe the root of the problem rests in the fact that Derek hasn’t paid much attention to him the whole night. And maybe Stiles hasn’t exactly tried to correct the issue by owning the mood of a cranky cat. But what _really_ gets to Stiles is the fact that he’s not even helping his work for the article right now. Unless Derek just really hates being tagged by a mute. Which doesn’t seem to be the case, because, again, he’s still having a blast with everyone that _isn’t_ Stiles.

Stepping out of his own headspace, Stiles decides to actually watch the game. The Yankees are on the field for the first half of the seventh inning. A Giants outfielder makes a third base grounder out of Tanaka’s second pitch, the Yankees crowd cheering when they manage to out Panik on third.

Derek turns toward Stiles in the midst of the noise. “Can you believe that?“

And he looks so cuddly Stiles has to fight the urge to just melt into the attention, Derek’s hair wilting and muscles bulging and cheeks reddening from exuberance.

After five seconds of just staring at Derek, Stiles is unsure of what exactly the man is referring to. But Stiles is sure he can believe it, actually, because it’s baseball, and he’s learned enough in the sport to know the edge can be flipped on the dime. Also, the quicker reality permeates his thoughts the quicker he remembers he’s mad at Derek. “Yes,” he states, arms securing tighter over his chest without eye contact.

Derek is unperturbed by the iciness, apparently. “So how much do you think they’ll pull by?”

Stiles acts like he doesn’t hear him, bobbing his head fractionally as if he has a tune stuck in the ole noggin, finally looking at Derek with blanched surprise after a beat. “Oh, are you talking to me?”

Head tilting, Derek looks like a fucking puppy. (A cute, fluffy puppy.) “Yes, you, Stiles.” He’s slightly puzzled, still dopey with energy.

Stiles makes a show of looking around Derek. To an empty seat. Only fueled further, the vengeful little demon in Stiles' ear cats, “What, was it your little buddy’s bedtime?”

When Derek’s eyes slit just so, Stiles can tell his attitude is rubbing off. “Don’t be rude, Stiles. Colin is twenty. I’m sure he can stay up past” – he glances at his watch – “9:20.”

One thing Stiles will always value is his quick wit. “He’s _underage_?!” Stiles stage-whispers, hand flying over his heart, “I’m not about kink-shaming, but acting on it is _illegal_ , Mr. Hale.”

“Stiles,” Derek cuts, brow scrunching as annoyance sets in, “I’m not a fucking child molester. Besides,” a hand gesticulates sharply, “his dad is the one who brought him.”

“Oh,” Stiles sighs heavily, as if a burden has lifted off his shoulders, “So you’re just trying to get to another man?” Stiles blinks owlishly, faux-innocently. “You should have just told me, Derek. I could have left already. Or am I playing wing man?” he derides.

“What the hell, Stiles?” Derek is truly confused now, exasperated as his breathy guffaw indicates. And Stiles almost feels bad.

But he has a paper to write, and it’s still quite annoying that this is the longest continuative conversation he’s had with Derek all night. “Oh look,” he silently praises _Colin_ for his punctuality, “your step-son is back. Don’t let me disturb you.” And at that he shuts up, promptly follows the ball with his eyes as Stratton cracks it high in the air straight down the pitcher’s mound, Mckinney snagging it for the Giants’ third out.

Derek’s hand cups his elbow, thumb grazing comfort in slow swipes. “Are you okay, Stiles?”

Despite his intentions in dosing Derek with the silent treatment, Stiles' tongue misses the cue from his brain. “ _Now_ you decide to care?” His eyes cut at Derek, flick away just as swiftly, but he can’t actually focus on anything, the monochromatic scheme of _white and blue and orange_ that is this sport getting to him, blending together and blurring.

A thick arm winds its way around his waist loosely, coerces Stiles into angling himself further into Derek’s side. “ _Słoneczko_ ,” Derek softens in his ear. Demanding but concerned, Derek’s scruff tickles Stiles' ear and has him near giggles. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”

They’re officially in the Stretch, and Stiles is glad because it brings him back to reality.

But apparently Derek doesn’t care much for the game now, putting the armrest up between their seats and sitting them down along with everyone else. Except they’re quite a bit more intimately posed than everyone else, Stiles practically in Derek’s lap with the man’s hand dangerously close to his ass.

“ _Derek_ ,” Stiles near hisses, avoiding eye contact under the ruse that everything is peachy just in case an audience happens to look. “We’re in public.”

Having learned his way around Stiles' moods far too deftly, Derek just nuzzles further into his side, whispers, “I could set you on my lap, all pretty for me. I know you’d love it.”

Part of Stiles is appalled by Derek’s bravado. Because, face it, baseball is still a majorly homophobic sport, and while all Stiles’ life there’s been no hiding that he likes boys,t Derek can pass for straight, and at least one of his business associates is in the row behind them.

But a much more honest part of Stiles is quite beguiled by the attention. So he doesn’t answer, just rests his weight heavier on Derek’s shoulder.

“I’d let you curl up on me, get comfy,” he gentles lips just before Stiles' ear. “I know you had a long day at work, and I know you might have had more fun with your friend.”

Stiles only hums in agreement, somehow calmed by Derek’s words.

A chuckle falls past Derek’s lips, almost nefarious. “Then you could hiss at all the baseball dads that get too close, bear your claws to let them know whose I am with the marks on my neck.”

An audible gasp falls past Stiles' lips, his hand claiming Derek’s upper thigh with the shock the man’s words prompt.

Derek would surely continue his game if not for the kiss cam stealing his attention with a silly cartoon replicating a prior smooch, Derek’s focus seemingly deficit.

Stiles lets his eyes rest on his date instead of allowing the inattention to irritate him, studies the way Derek’s features are slighlty uplifted, gently amused. In a flash Derek’s cheeks heat rosy, chin tucking ever-so-slightly as his lips press together to hide apparent nerves.

Too focused on how fucking adorable Derek can be, Stiles doesn’t catch an idea of what might have caused his shyness until –

Up high on the big screen he and Derek are being projected for the whole world to see, and Stiles was right in assuming their positioning is rather risqué for public. He probably admires their appearance a few seconds too long, but he cares not, because with Derek’s abashed ruggedness and his own pampered handling they look _hot_.

“We don’t have to,” Derek offers uncertainly, tongue peeking out to wet his lips as his eye contact flickers.

But their section is goading them on with an uproar of “ _Yeah!_ s”, and Stiles is hit once more with the adrenaline Derek’s timidity brings on, so he cups the back of Derek’s neck, turns his baseball hat around backwards, squeezes the man’s upper thigh in hopes it feels like comfort – and kisses him.

It probably only lasts five seconds, a gentle press of lips, but Stiles is reluctant to pull back when Derek gasps into his mouth so softly, almost like he tries to hide it. When he feels Derek’s mouth mold to his bottom lip, a soft pressure as a hand tickles just under his chin before it’s over.

The taste of cherry lip balm and a tingling in his toes is all he’s left with, Derek’s cheek hot under the ghost of Stiles' fingers. So he darts back in for one last peck, Derek not even able to react before some ridiculous cartoon of Bugs Bunny and another Bunny both wearing jerseys at a baseball game is playing over the megatron.

It’s cute, Stiles will admit. While the cam zooms in on another duo, Stiles feathers a kiss to Derek’ cheekbone, holds his hand out for a fist bump and tells Derek, “We did good.”

And then they sing ‘Take Me Out to the Ballpark’ and ‘God Bless America.’ Then the megatron flashes back to sweaty men who’ve gained more towards their salary in the timespan of this game than Stiles does quarterly. _The difference likely compensates for their having to put up with a life of fame_ , Stiles briefly entertains, losing himself in his head a bit so he doesn’t replay over again Derek’s heating cheeks and plump lips.

——

By the time the ninth inning is almost over Stiles still has ‘Cotton-Eyed Joe’ stuck in his head, and he’s running out of time to piss Derek off. And Derek is far from bothered, let it be said, as he continually bumps his arm with Stiles’, lips disturbing the air around Stiles' ear close enough to touch.

Quite frankly, while the touching is pleasant, the fact that Stiles is unable to focus on the article is only stressing him out. So, with noise compressing him all around, Stiles snips, “I’m thirsty,” turns to Derek with finality to his statement.

“I can make sure to buy you something on the way out,” Derek is quick to jump to, literally lighting up with the prospect as his hands stuff in his pockets and eyebrows shoot up.

Staring at Derek blankly for a moment, Stiles turns away to continue watching the game, crosses his arms and exhales sharply out of his nose to release a bit of tension. At football games the camera crew loves to zoom in on fans when their opposing team scores, and Stiles is sad to say baseball doesn’t allow for that sort of raw entertainment as often, especially since he’d love that reprieve right about now from his horrid attitude he can’t seem to get a grip on.

“Or,” Derek starts his concession with a hand to Stiles' elbow, “I could just get you a drink now.” His voice is unsure yet gaze timorous when Stiles glances to the man. “Beat the traffic and all…” he trails off with his eyes fluttering, hand receding from Stiles' elbow to cup the back of his neck.

“Mountain Dew,” is what Stiles offers simply.

Derek jerks to attention at that, eyes growing bright once again. “Yeah? I can get right on that,” he clumsily points his thumb over his shoulder, jerks his head seriously.

A small nod Stiles allows, a soft, “Thanks, Der,” rather candidly appreciative.

Stiles can easily imagine a tail wagging as the golden retriever that is his big-shot date trots off. And as the stands break into an enthusiastic cheer around him he directs his attention back to the game. One out left, and the Yankees have the bases loaded.

**

Just as he exits the arena at a jog, rounds the corner to where they sell food and beverage, it hits Derek that he’s about to miss the result of Game Three. All because his wolf rolls itself over for Stiles Stilinski. And, well – he can’t just go back in without Stiles' drink, but missing a Yankees win isn’t exactly on the top of his Bucket List either.

After too many beautiful seconds wasted of inner turmoil, Derek fumbles with his wallet in his jeans to plead a, “Large Mountain Dew, please,” to whoever is running concessions, not even glancing up as he slaps a five to the counter.

Derek eyes a TV set up at the back of the stand that’s relaying the game, and he tunes in just in time to witness Stanton foul for the Yankees. As his hands fly up of their own accord and he groans a “ _Come on!_ ” he nearly misses a questions directed at him.

“Do you want to make that a Jumbo?” an older man croaks out rather politely, methodically.

“Um,” Derek tries to evaluate the question as stats and time-keeping and Stiles are already buzzing up his head, dragging his eyes over the man’s sincere expression and blue work attire, “No, thanks.”

“You sure?” the man continues even though he’s already turned to fill up a cheap cup with soda, “You know, with just 25 cents more you could make it a Jumbo.”

 _Bless_. “That’s alright,” Derek assures, eyeing the score in the corner of the TV as he waits for the man to _hurry up_ , toes tapping as the last few moments slink away.

“Okay then,” the guy whistles, reaches for a lid to top off the drink, but –

“No lid, thanks,” Derek leans on the counter, gives his best appreciative smile as he nods slightly.

The worker’s eyebrows merely raise as he sets the drink on the counter. “That’ll be $3.75, then.”

Derek only scoops up the blasted beverage, tightens one last smile with a, “Keep the change,” as he points at the money on the counter before brisking back to the game. Because if he’s fast enough he can at least get a view of the final run that will either make or break the Yanks.

Except he really should have just gotten a lid, because the Mountain Dew is sloshing out of its cup, surely stickying Derek’s hand. Slowing down a bit in shock to shake the liquid off his fingers, Derek curses himself for getting into this situation, trying so damned hard to please Stiles.

The noise from the stadium grows louder, and Derek clomps back to his section just after a walk off home run, not actually able to see anything due to the team moshing together.

He groans out bad-temperedly at having just fucking missed the Yankees’ victory.

—— 

“I must say Colin is a chill dude,” Stiles rambles as he slurps away at his Mountain Dew, night air urging him to tug his drawstrings tighter.

Derek could honestly smack him, although he’s trying to suppress the absurd urge. Because it’s not like Stiles purposely ignored him all night just to send him off on a wild goose chase for a damned soda. It’s not like Stiles intentionally planned for Derek to miss the end of the game. The very notion is farcical. So Derek offers a tight-lipped smile, nods once. “Yeah.”

“And, y’know,” Stiles laughs innocuously with a lift of his shoulders, “I’ve never seen such an incredible win.”

Derek slits his eyes. _Okay_ , so maybe the possibility isn’t so absurd. “Neither have I,” Derek near grits. Color him suspicious.

Stiles doesn’t say much else as they come upon the street, cabs lined up for a horde of commuters. But a slick little smile ebbs its way onto his lips. “It’s too bad you missed it.” _Sluurrp_.

It’s the fact that Derek started off the night with bones soaked in jealousy because of the scent of another wolf all over Stiles. That Derek’s wolf wants to sniff and lick and _mount_ yet Stiles isn’t bothered making a fool out of him. It’s the fact that Derek would live out the night all over again just to hear that bratty laughter and witness his sour sneers if it meant he could be close to the boy.

All of that combined slows Derek down on the last few steps that Stiles bounces through to his cab. His wolf is whining with its tail tucked close, and Derek feels ridiculously small in his human skin, embarrassed as he toes at the ground just before Stiles in the open door of his cab. He’s unsure if he’s actually allowed to see Stiles off or not.

But a palm just over his navel has Derek’s tummy stirring, head lifting up to receive Stiles words: “Thank you, Der.” The younger boy’s eyes are a lovely shade of amber, and Derek is almost lost in them completely before Stiles is leaning forward slightly, chin tilted.

Derek, rather unsure of exactly Stiles' desire, throws _fuck all_ to the wind and presses a kiss to the corner of Stiles' mouth with a hand to his hip.

“I want to see you again,” Stiles steadies a gaze to Derek – almost as if he can read Derek’s pathetically downtrodden thoughts, “Alright?” His tone is warm and easy, eyes certain.

An added rub to the stomach is all it takes for Derek to proffer enough confidence for satisfaction: “I’ll look forward to it, _Słoneczko_ ,” he smiles as genuinely self-assured as he can, backs away slowly after one last squeeze to Stiles' hip.


	3. Day Three

| _Friday_ |

The prospect of a meeting is always just as dignified in its dread-bring, Derek has come to realize time and time again, than the actual endeavor ends up amounting to. Sitting at a glossy, rectangle table with Lips & Hips positioned directly across from him, not even the warm sunshine floating through the windows can bring to light anything other than _Yes_ ; yes business conferences are just as horrid in actuality as his nightmares conjure them to be.

Peter is rambling on about company numbers he really has little applied knowledge regarding, spewing the curse ‘shit’ as a suffix to any animal that pops into his mind.

And Derek is gripping an over-priced, foam cup of coffee from Birch’s just around the corner, letting the heat soak into his palm as he covertly eyes the rest of his associates to find comfort in the fact that _yes_ , they are all in the same sinking ship.

Boyd’s just to Derek’s right twiddling his thumbs, Isaac at Derek’s diagonal not-so-discreetly scrolling through his phone, Sarah and Jessica multi-tasking by nodding enthusiastically when Peter directs his gaze their way but otherwise engaged in what looks like an argument when he turns his back. (Derek still doesn’t understand women, but he is impressed). And Derek is sat in his most uncomfortable pair of Kiton pinstripe trousers, fitted dress shirt a few degrees too hot. All because Peter has a taste for style, and Derek is about ready to label himself _pathetic_ for dressing in such to get on the boss’s good side.

A newer receptionist pops her head in quietly, knocks rapt on the conference door to garner attention.

“ _What_?” Peter snaps, jerks around just to settle into a kinder smile as he realizes it’s one of the cuter subordinates. Sick.

“Um,” Gracie’s thick, Boston accent stutters a bit as she flicks her eyes around the room, “There’s a line for Mr. Hale.”

“Tell them I’ll take a message,” Peter hastens, already puffed up to start screaming again.

“Ahem, it’s actually for the other Mr. Hale,” Gracie informs, and she should get a bonus for hiding her amusement so well.

Nearly freezing up, wary to be called out, Derek goes ahead and directs: “Could you just take a message, Gracie?”

Voice a tad lower, eyes pointed, the receptionist continues, “It’s Stiles, Mr. Hale.”

Derek’s stuck a bit between whether to try to get further into Stiles' good graces by taking the call or please Peter by insisting he’s too busy. In the back of his mind he figures that impressing Stiles would possibly lead to Derek impressing Peter in a roundabout way, but –

His boss gives a chuckle at that, smile oddly enthusiastic. “Oh, so we’re getting somewhere?” he wiggles his eyebrows creepily toward Derek as his hands clasp together and he leans forward.

“Er –“ Derek grips the arms of his chair.

“Take the call, nephew,” Peter urges, seemingly unperturbed by the disruption.

“Alright,” Derek nods, smooths his tie down to stand.

“Go ahead and take your stuff with you. I’m nearly done,” Peter waves his hand, already back to animatedly jabbing at posters.

Mood abruptly uplifted, Derek bites the inside of his cheek until he’s out the door and can let his smile out full-force, rounding the corner to his desk and nodding at Gracie as he picks up the phone. “ _Słoneczko_ ,” he endears, has to actively keep an animalistic purr out of his greeting.

When he and Stiles talked over the phone before the baseball game Derek couldn’t help rumbling territorially, defensively at the notion that Stiles felt ‘accosted’ by Derek even though Stiles meant it as a joke. And then when Stiles finally met Derek at the gate, Derek felt his fangs descending when the smell of another ‘wolf all over Stiles hit him. Even though Stiles claims the other Alpha is just his friend, Derek’s wolf doesn’t understand that still.

And then there’s the question of whether or not Stiles actually _knows_ his ‘friend’ is a werewolf. If he does, then that means Stiles is able to compare the two even more in depth and possibly rank the other guy above. Or Stiles could already be in the Alpha’s pack, which means there is looming conflict if Derek and Stiles continue seeing each other. And they will continue seeing each other if Derek’s wolf has anything to say about it.

But then there’s also the chance that Stiles is unaware of the other guy’s lycanthropy, which means he’s possibly at risk of being hurt if he finds himself in the wrong place at the wrong time with the werewolf. Derek pushes that thought out of his mind before his own wolf can gnaw away at it in anxiousness.

Derek is also aware that just because Stiles is friends with a Supernatural doesn’t mean he’d want to date one. So Derek buckles down on quieting his wolf, won’t allow it to come out around Stiles lest it scare him away.

“Hi, sourwolf,” Stiles giggles through the phone.

The sound is so pleasant that Derek ignores the bit of chatter in the background of Stiles' end, steels himself for the hurricane that is Stiles' presence when he allows himself to call Derek ‘sourwolf’. “You just got me out of a very boring meeting.”

“Well you’re welcome, Mr. Hale.” There’s got to be a smirk molding the boy’s features.

“Is there anything you need?” Derek leans back in his own rolling chair, tinkers with a pen on his desk.

“Oh,” Stiles gushes – a bit too ardently to be considered authentic, but, “I just called to let you know that I had a wonderful time last night, and I already miss you, Derrie.”

Eyebrows furrowing, something nasty is beginning to eat away at Derek’s stomach. “Well I had a nice time, too,” he plays along, throws in, “thanks again for the ticket,” for good measure.

There’s a bit of a commotion through the tinny service, a distinctive _smack_ sound.

His wolf having sniffed out something rotten, Derek’s good mood has turned sour on the dime. “Right, well,” he mutters gruffly, “I’ve got to be going, then.”

“Wait!” Stiles shouts through the phone, voice no longer echo-y – as if he’s taken Derek off speakerphone. “Do I get to see you tonight?”

And _this_ is Stiles, Derek can tell. Tone just sly of shy, and Derek doesn’t think the boy would allow himself to sound so intimate if it were just for show. “How about you pick us out a movie to go see.”

The line is quiet for a moment until, “Are you sure you’re ready for that?” is teased.

Derek laughs abruptly, tension in his shoulders easing. “No, but I would like to see you again anyway.”

“Alright, Mr. Hale,” Stiles sighs, seemingly unaware of what the sound does to Derek’s arousal, “I’ll let you go make your money.”

“Text me the details,” Derek replies as he checks his watch, makes a mental note to get started on some reports due soon.

“Kay,” is what’s hushed from Stiles, but he sounds woe to actually hang up, something underlying the tone that’s a bit vulnerable.

It draws yet another chuckle from Derek. “I’ve really got to go, _Słoneczko_ , but I’ll see you soon.”

“Alright,” Stiles hums, likely gently preoccupied with something from the sounds of it, “bye, Der.”

“Goodbye,” Derek hangs up, leans back in his chair once more to catch his breath. His wolf is perked up, tongue lolling out. Aussaged by a pet on the head and one kind word.

**

Believe it or not, Stiles puts a lot of thought into the movies he pays good money to see in theater. But none of the current films interest him too much, so he’s been talking himself into even attending a showing. Plus, he doubts Derek will appreciate how much he talks during movies.

Twenty minutes past pacing back and forth across his checkered kitchen tiles while ringing his hands together, Stiles settles on the fact that if Derek doesn’t appreciate whichever movie Stiles chooses then the column will be just that much easier to write.

His excited jitters seem stemmed by naught, though, ambling about his apartment to wash a load of dirty whites and check the cabinet twenty times in case he skipped over the non-existent bottle of vodka in storage (all drained from last weekend).

Presently, curled up in a rather comfortable seat, giggling like mad with Derek about bad acting while the previews play, Stiles can’t even begin to conceive what had him so nerve-ridden in the first place.

“C’mon, Derek,” Stiles goads on, his date playing as if he’s _actually_ neutral on the matter, “Who do you think would win between Batman and Superman?” His feet have already found their way to the back of the seat in front of him, head lolling against his own headrest to give Derek a faux-stern glare.

Derek sits with his left ankle resting on his right knee, fingers dancing over the shared armrest as he takes a deep breath, gearing up to answer truthfully _finally_. “I’m not going to comment on that,” he lets out in a sly _whoosh_ , smirk wicked.

“ _Der-ek_ ,” Stiles moans and groans, perfectly aware of his effusively loud behavior but reckless all the same for effect, especially given that another silly commercial is playing yet. “You know what? I’m not talking to you until you tell me.”

Either believing it a bluff or up for a challenge, Derek merely pops out an “OK,” shoves a handful of buttery popcorn into his mouth after a few Reese’s Pieces, slurps obnoxiously at his water. (Because, _“I’m trying to keep fit, Stilinski,” he proclaimed, solemn despite Stiles' own guffaw and their junk food racking up the ticket._ )

The last few stragglers squeeze into seats as the lead-up to the thriller Stiles chose begins, theatre washed in dark shadow, and Stiles can practically feel the energy radiating off of Derek, toes tip-tapping. And the ill chance of it being from something as simple as sugar plays with Stiles' mind, has his chest frazzling.

Stiles is on a mission now, is the thing. An idea pops into his head to talk Derek’s ear off throughout the movie, something of the like portrayed in _The Universal Don’ts of Dating_. Not only will it help him to find out what gets the man ticking, but he hopes to find Derek’s superhero bias somewhere in the passing remarks he’ll surely make in response to Stiles' rambling.

——

Halfway through the movie Stiles is more caught up with the plot via Derek’s smartass annotations than attention directed at the actual film, which he can’t take the time to analyze the implication behind because, again, he’s too caught up in Derek’s radiation of _joy_ absorbing into his skin like bright sunrays in a darkened room.

Casts of blues and purples highlighting the theatre, Stiles is oddly comfortable with the intimacy, almost loath to duck a sheepish look from those who warn them to ‘ _Keep it down!_ ” because it takes away from his studying Derek’s highlighted features.

And Stiles can’t recall exactly when Derek’s palm landed itself onto his knee, but he knows it’s a constant stimulus to the butterflies in his stomach, and he won’t shift for fear of the chilly atmosphere shocking better discretion into his carefree actions.

——

“Who would you rather suck off?”

The film is nearly over, in the middle of the climax, but Stiles is restless what with not being able to concentrate on the movie due to _Derek_ right beside him.

Derek’s doesn’t seem to realize his question, though, not even paying attention with elbows resting on his knees, looking as if he’s ready to jump into the movie and take a fighting stance for – well, whoever it is Derek is rooting for. (Stiles hasn’t quite grown privy to that detail yet.) So Stiles has taken to resting in his seat, following the contours of Derek’s muscle with his eyes as the lights flash over his thick forearms, full lips, sharp nose, bushy eyebrows.

Fingers grazing a bulging bicep, Stiles continues, “Or are you more keen to licking out?”

The film’s audio quietens a bit, Derek’s stature de-tensing as he leans back in his own seat. Like a light switch flicking on, Derek finally turns to Stiles and automatically hands out attention. “Hmm?” an arms wraps around Stiles' shoulders, lips humming against his temple.

Stiles legitimately whines, a dog not allowed his bone as he noses Derek’s jaw. “Why don’t you pay attention to me? Are you thinking about my questions in too much detail?”

Derek pulls back slightly to raise his brows at Stiles in query, fingers soothing circles into the younger’s arm. “We’re at a movie, babe. One _you_ picked out, might I add.”

A huff and a roll of his eyes, Stiles tries to lean away from Derek’s touch. “I don’t see you complaining. Especially since all of the actors are wearing spandex.”

Retracting his arm, Derek is visibly growing exasperated. “ _What_?”

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Stiles snips, glues his eyes to the screen (where some rando’s ass is looking amazing, he’ll admit), “Go ahead and fantasize about dicking down blonde dude; don’t let _me_ , your _date_ , get in the way.”

Derek might have begun to respond, but Stiles can’t speculate because the man behind them leans down and scolds: “Could you _please_ be quiet?”

And Stiles knows he should really just keep his mouth shut, but he’s been spending too much time around his sassy friends. (Which he _knows_ isn’t an _actual_ excuse, but it’s the only one he’s got.) “You had no problem crunching on all that popcorn, bro.”

Derek admonishes, “Stiles,” just as the man retorts, “That was for ten minutes. You two have been ruining the movie for a fucking hour.”

This time Derek turns toward the guy behind them, arms raising as if to justify and settle, but Stiles blurts out, “Oh really? Because _your_ hot breath down my neck is fogging up the damned theater.”

As soon as it’s uttered Stiles has to hold himself back from clapping a hand over his mouth, and the man is suddenly appearing much more intimidating as he lurches to his feet, muscles in his chest popping as he puffs his chest out. “What the fuck did you just say!?”

“Look,” Derek really does offer up his palms this time, tries to keep as quiet as possible as even more dirty glares are pointed their way. But his eyes are steady, tone harsh, “I’m sorry this has gotten so out of hand –“

“Yeah? Why don’t you put your friend on a leash, then?” Buff boy demands.

Jaw dropping open, Stiles wouldn’t filter his thoughts if he could. “Listen, asshole, if you don’t chill out my _boyfriend_ will pummel your ass.”

Out of the corner of his eye Stiles can see Derek’s eyes widen in a ‘ _What the fuck?!_ ’ translation, and Stiles can only pull a toothy frown as if to say ‘ _Whoops_ ’ in reply before –

“Let’s finish this outside then.”

Stiles is about to just groan in annoyance, but then Derek begins warning the guy against fucking with him, and the guy reasserts, “I _said_ , ‘Let’s take this the fuck outside if you think you can land a hit on me.’”

“Shut the fuck up!” a teenager shouts from a few rows in front, popcorn pegging Derek’s head just before the girl flips her hair over her shoulder and turns back around.

A heavy snarl later, Derek is near manhandling a snorting Stiles out of their seats, ordering their opponent, “Follow me.”

Stiles can’t get a word in edgewise between exiting into the cinema lobby, being strong-armed behind Derek, and watching as the other guy’s fist swings out in slow motion, no pause in actions.

It’s a bit anticlimactic, actually, because the only thing that hits impact is Derek’s forearm dodging the blow, a proper fighting stance positioning Derek’s feet. And the next thing Stiles comprehends, Derek has the dude in a sort of arm lock, proclaiming, “I said not to _fuck_ with me.” His words are strained, and Stiles can tell Derek’s not putting much work into keeping the heavier guy still, so he must be holding himself back.

Shocked, not fully processing the situation still, Stiles doesn’t know whether to intervene or skirt away, eyes darting around as if a watchdog. But he knows his heart rate is picking up, and the urge to protect Derek is growing in his chest even though, rationally, Stiles knows that Derek isn’t in danger.

Random shuffles out of Derek’s hold after a good ten seconds of struggling before tapping out, shaking his shoulders out of the uncomfortable position. “Shit, get off me!” his voice wobbles as he seems to assess whether or not Derek will retaliate a blow.

Derek doesn’t answer before the guy is holding his hands up, backing away with a nod, “I know when to call it, man.” And then he’s back in the theatre, the lobby area next to the arcade dead silent.

Chest pumping to pull air – surely an effect of adrenaline wearing thin – Derek’s face is flushed a deep red, and the sight of him so angry drops a stone in Stiles' stomach that feels a lot like fear, so it’s with little thought that Stiles launches himself at the man, fingers curling around the back of his head to do a quick inspection for damage with raking eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Derek. Are you hurt? Are you okay?” Stiles rambles sloppily, hands contouring the muscles in Derek’s shoulders, chest, back that – if he were to admit it – probably do much more to calm Stiles himself than provide actual comfort for Derek.

Stiles doesn’t even realize his spiked breaths until Derek’s palms soothe to his wrists, trace the length of his arm to rub warmth into tense muscles. “You’re alright,” Derek assures as he steadies Stiles' chin with a thumb, adds a chuckle to lighten the atmosphere, “I fuck around with my friends worse off than that.”

“Still,” Stiles insists as he shuffles further into Derek, “I was an idiot to provoke that guy.”

For some reason keen on avoiding the topic, Derek merely jibes, “I can’t believe you didn’t comment on my word choice. Have you cleansed out all your dirty thoughts, then?” And a thumb tickles along Stiles' lower lip almost unthinkingly.

“Stop, Derek,” Stiles scolds with contorting features and a sharper tone, “I’m trying to be serious right now.”

Derek sighs, walks them back slowly to lean against a lime green wall (that is rather distracting, actually) and rub calloused fingertips over his eyes as Stiles takes to fiddling with Derek’s shirt buttons aimlessly.

It’s quiet for a few moments, the stillness of the cinema lobby a bit uncanny as each gather their thoughts. Seriously, where did the workers fuck off to?

Derek decides to break the silence with a forefinger hooking under Stiles' chin. “You still with me, _Słoneczko_?”

Gripping firmer Derek’s shirt, Stiles darts up to peck a tiny, wet kiss to Derek’s mouth, voice small as he pleads, “’m sorry, Derek.” Sincere, warm eyes are wide as they complete the disposition of a child who’s just done accidental harm.

Derek’s features flit over emotions that range from pity to anger before he exhales deeply. “No harm, no foul,” he eventually decides, lips quirking into a half-smile.

“But you _could_ have been hurt,” Stiles argues with furrowing brows and an upset pucker to his bitten mouth.

After a soft scoff, Derek’s head leans back against the wall for a moment before he’s back to steadying Stiles' gaze, larger hands firming themselves to the small of Stiles' back and cheek. “I box, Stiles. I wouldn’t have been hurt anything I couldn’t handle.” It looks like he’s holding back a laugh.

The information has a hard way working itself into Stiles' rationalization, his confused eyes likely enough for the other to go by. “Why?”

Derek lets loose a chuckle. “Keeps me in shape, and it’s good to know for self-defense. Plus, it’s a great stress-reliever.”

Stiles tilts his head into Derek’s palm as he nods, one hand wrapping around Derek’s wrist while the other splays over a solid chest as he soaks in the trivia. “What made you get into it?”

Eyes flickering away, Derek’s lips twitch imperceptibly to maintain a now-forced smile. “Doesn’t matter, does it? I’ll have to start taking it up in public if it means you get all sweet for me, though.”

Filing the lack of response away for later, Stiles allows an indignant titter to prelude his palm smacking at Derek’s pec.


	4. Day Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is an explicit scene at the end of this chapter. If you want to skip it, stop reading at "Stiles feels relatively blithe...." If you like the scene and want to give kudos or bookmark for convenience, I have it posted as a separate work called "Take You There" that is in the same series as this work.
> 
> Also, Ash is inspired by the dog from Jadore_Hale's "What We Called Love"

| _Saturday_ |

It’s said that urban areas don’t experience the seasons as thoroughly as rural do, but Derek feels the full effects of winter around him every time he’s in the vicinity of Christopher Park, a sea of barren life that thrives even in the colder days.

Derek had tagged along with Erica for a late lunch break in knowing that the she wouldn’t mind just relaxing – especially if it meant eating those mean ass street dogs native to the block.

“Sounds like a sick time,” Erica intones sarcastically, a bit skittishly avoiding Derek’s eye.

Dully noting the behavior but not directly bothered, Derek continues on with his story: “No, it was good. I mean, having to hold myself back from beating a guy bloody wasn’t planned, but Stiles was doting all over me the rest of the night, so.”

“Really?” Erica’s tone lifts amusedly, something on the subject apparently piquing her interest before she takes a bite of her hot dog.

Derek futilely attempts rucking his sleeves up higher leather jacket too hot with the sun’s active beating. “As much of a handful he’s proven to be, he’s worth it, I think.”

Again Erica questions “Really?” in genuine inquiry – as if she knows something Derek doesn’t, something to counter the claim. And, again, Erica’s gait falls a bit oddly, but.

Brushing it off, figuring there’s just something on her mind, Derek reaffirms with a fond chuckle: “Yeah. He was bothered at the prospect of me fighting.” Not able to tame the grin heating his face, Derek quietens, “Real sweet to apologize and amuse me. It was cute.”

A ghastly choking noise scrapes out of Erica’s throat as she – get this – chokes on her food, and Derek smacks between her shoulder blades a few times as his immediate option to help. After a moment Erica coughs out gratitude.

“So,” Derek decides to change the subject in hopes of conversation flow picking up, “How’re the wedding plans coming?”

One would think Erica had spent the whole day actually planning with the groan she sounds. “Don’t get me fucking started. I know Boyd would be happy with anything, but there’s just so much to consider that people don’t seem to realize.”

Derek’s almost apologetic over bringing it up, figures it’s probably good for Erica and the pack in general for them all to relieve stress instead of instigate it. “You can always ask Lydia for help.”

“She would take over the whole ceremony,” Erica scoffs defensively, finally meeting Derek’s eyes, “worse than her own wedding.”

Unbothered since, well, it’s true, Derek replies, “She had a right to micromanage her day, and Laura was happy watching Lydia in her element.”

Erica grumbles lowly something about wanting to set up her own ceremony.

“Or maybe ask Allison,” Derek tries a bit trudgingly since the only other engaged couple he knows is Cora and Isaac, but it’ll be a miracle if Cora agrees to a ceremony at all. “If getting everything right means this much to you, I’ll be willing to try working with her.”

“No!” Erica protests, eyes wild as she clamps here mouth back closed before – “I mean, it would just be awkward right now. But, yeah, definitely – you and Allison would get along alright.”

“Okay,” Derek enunciates, growing irritated with Erica’s sour attitude. He glances at his watch in preparation to lie about needing to get back to his office. “Well –“

“Wait,” Erica sighs, drags a hand down his face, “I’m sorry, Alpha.”

Another silent second. Derek nods, offers a small smile and a teasing fist to her shoulder, which sparks a playfulness back into Erica’s eyes.

“So,” his friend smirks, “you’re planning on seeing Stiles tonight? What’re you cooking up?”

**

“Grilled Club sans bacon,” Scott presents his findings as he hands Stiles his food, settles into the rolling chair he’s placed in the corner of Stiles' cubicle.

Stiles gave up long ago fast food burgers. Partly because he isn’t quite sure what exactly goes into their patties, and also because McDonald’s chicken sandwiches are pretty tasty anyway. (But really because he wanted to be supportive of his dad when the doc restricted his diet ‘ _or else_.’ The withdrawals were severe, and he hasn’t given up curly fries, but he’s pretty proud of himself nonetheless.

“Thanks, Scotty boy,” Stiles raises the sandwich in salute, checks for pig anyway just to be sure.

“So you enjoy inciting riots in your free time?” Allison jests as she leans back in her own perch on Stiles' desk.

“His beauty could start wars,” Scott adds his witticism.

“I was just trying to crack Derek. Y’know, act irrationally jealous. And then it lead to some asshole trying to duel him,” Stiles reasons in the simplest of storytelling.

Scott snorts before jabbing at his salad from the shop upstairs. “Except you weren’t _acting_ jealous, you _were_ jealous.”

“Shut it,” is all Stiles can grumble, wads up a complimentary napkin to peg at Scott’s head.

The floor is relatively quiet since it’s Saturday and most everyone else has chosen to enjoy their weekend, sunlight filtrating just as ever but no one taking notice in the novelty of it anymore. Stiles hasn’t grown immune, unappreciative, though, has decided on keeping his gifted bouquet here on his desk, the natural light just what it needs to sit and look pretty.

As if the flowers aren’t enough to draw a blush to Stiles' face, beside the flowers rests the wolf nameless. Looking at the two together with the Alexander McQueen scarf delicately arranged around, Stiles is surprised nobody has commented on the shrine he’s inadvertently built for Derek Hale.

Tummy traitorously stirring at the thought of what it means to have received gifts from the man, Stiles is about ready to feign ill and head to the restroom to splash his face when Lydia pops up from around his cubicle, shocking a little jump out of all three subordinates and simultaneously flushing the color from Stiles' cheeks.

“I am just _loving_ your notes on this piece, Stiles,” Lydia chirps vociferously, disturbing the quietude.

Scott placing a hand over his heart and exaggerating being surprised with wide eyes eggs a grin to Stiles' face, which isn’t a problem since Lydia won’t know any better what’s so funny. “Thank you,” he nods.

“When will you be seeing the man next?”

Stiles considers lying because his friends will make a fuss and tease him about it, but his boss is asking, and she’ll see the notes anyway. “Um, tonight, actually,” Stiles forces a smile, leans back in his chair with clasped hands, “he’s cooking dinner at his place.”

“Fabulous,” Lydia articulates, seemingly not even paying attention as her eyes flicker elsewhere. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

Stiles nods again, braces himself for the impact of jibes.

But all that’s said is “Scared the hell out of me” by Allison as she shoves a few fries in her mouth, pulls an exasperated face for Stiles to relate with.

“So what crazy shit are you gunna pull tonight then?” Scott asks, no trace of maliciousness present. Just a health hippie with his organic lettuce.

And Stiles should’ve known there would be no nastiness to the conversation. His friends aren’t purposely hurtful, he just is ultra-sensitive to the _Derek_ subject. Which he will _not_ be contemplating in depth anytime soon whatsoever.

Blinking out of his locked and sealed brewing thoughts on Derek, Stiles focuses back on his display of roses, the plush, the scarf, all connoting a sense of giddiness, simple affection. Because he’s a glutton, Stiles grabs at the scarf and shakes it out, wraps it around his neck.

“Woah,” Scott pauses, puppy face confused and nose twitching, “I smell, er — _were_.” He shifts his eyes around at the other people on the floor before honing in on the scarf.

“No fucking way,” Stiles hushesat first, then promptly yells, “Why didn’t you notice before!?”

Scott just raises his brows and glares harder at the accessory. “It’s not like I go sniffing at your stuff on the reg.”

“Oh, my God,” Stiles whisper-shouts, spins around in his chair so he doesn’t start pacing, “That makes so much sense! The growling, the sensitive neck, the stuffed _wolf_!”

“I know a wolf named Derek,” Allison muses around a gulp of her smoothie.

Stiles is distracted, though, because things are starting to add up! “I think he smelled you on your hoodie I wore to the game! He got all closed off and as asking where it came from.”

Though entertained by the revelation, all too quickly reality sets in. “This complicates things.”

Scott see-saws his head, tentatively chomping back on his salad. “If his wolf is unbothered with you then it should be even easier to break it off. But if his wolf has taken a liking, well.”

“ _Shit_.”

——

Stiles has never been this far into the Upper West Side nor in an apartment so high in the air (even if only mid-rise). The exterior style is elegantly art deco, and the open floorplan of the lobby is modern with an ambiance welcoming, not clinical. He shouldn’t really be surprised, but – he landed a man living in the penthouse of a complex with a doorman and most definitely a concierge for fuck’s sake.

Heart picking up pace as ridiculous nerves set in, Stiles is simultaneously irked that he couldn’t have swung Derek as an _actual_ date and thankful that all traces of Derek will be gone in a week – his lavish living, charming personality, his all-around perfection that Stiles only stands as a smudge of mud up against.

He’s glad no one else is in the elevator with him because now he can avoid belittling gazes in the mirror he’s facing both from others and himself, instead focusing on the cardboard box once used to store files that is now filled with household items. Stiles is proud to say he can find a bit of humor in the situation, at least, a snort scoffing its way out of him at the sight of teddy bears and superhero paraphernalia, not to mention the –

The elevator doors slide open to reveal a barren hallway, the front door to Derek’s homes just to the left. Because Stiles wants to surprise Derek with the decorations, Stiles tries the doorknob before the doorbell and, luckily enough, finds it unlocked.

The apartment is nicely spaced with minimalist, metalwork stairs reflecting each other diagonally to rise along the foyer walls left and right, coming together to form a ledge over Stiles' head that surely leads to a loft. The door just to his right under the stairs is likely a coat closet, and the mirrored door to his left is peeped open slightly to reveal a wet room. To complete the foyer is a wide archway, two green houseplants standing tall either its side.

Before Stiles can even begin to wonder on the extravagance of Derek’s glass walls, the terrace beyond, he hears little claws tip-tapping his direction, a medium-sized black and white pooch yipping excitedly on its hind legs with its tongue out.

Stiles settles his box onto a stair step at chest level, drops his carry-on by the door, and crouches down with barely contained enthusiasm. Breathless giggles are let out as he pets at the pup, its tongue trying the most to lick all over his face.

Just as Stiles reaches to grab at a dog tag he hears an “Ash?” being queried from right of the walled foyer, and a second later Derek strolls into Stiles' view, hair nicely gelled with a humorously, outrageousy X-rated apron portraying Batman’s bulges his attire.

“Stiles!” Derek’s curious wonder makes way for a wide smile and crinkling eyes, hands at his waist likely meant to serve as rest from hard work with the added benefit of making him look rather like – well, Batman.

Stiles thinks to offer a hello, but, “Some heroes still wear capes, eh?” And – _what the fuck?_ Honestly, why –

Derek lets out an easy bellow, cheeks shading a lovely crimson to run his hands over the damned apron, which only further adds to the scandalous nature of his appearance. “Yeah, um – it was a gift from my friends last Christmas.”

Relieved that his idiotic commentary blows over so easily, Stiles rises from his crouch, let’s his hand dangle for a sniffing Ash. “Hi.”

Smile softening, Derek murmurs a ‘ _hi_ ’ back, eyes so sweet. “I see you’ve met Ash?” he nods to the dog who’s taken to staring doe-eyed up at his company, “I told him to be expecting a new friend so that maybe he wouldn’t be surprised and rowdy when you finally got here, but…” Derek trails off, a shrug.

“Well I’m just as pleased to see him,” Stiles teases out a coo, smirks at Derek as he gives an exemplary scratch behind the pup’s ear, which rouses it back into a tap-dancing state, paws a blur.

Derek feigns disappointment, sports a moue as he steps closer to Stiles with a clench of the hand – as if he has to think twice about reaching out, not sure where their personal bubbles have gerrymandered. “And I suppose that’s all you’re pleased to see, huh?”

Taking the bait is easy enough. As so, Stiles pulls a pucker and crinkles his nose at his date with a tiny shake of the head to tease, rests his palm on Derek’s chest to lean into a chaste peck – because apparently that’s a _thing_ now. A kiss hello and a kiss goodbye, a –

Stiles cuts himself off before he’s forced to live with whatever pathetically quixotic melodrama his mind coins. After all, he gave up waxing decent poetry ages ago.

“And I don’t suppose you’ll let me in on your entrée of choice, will you?” Stiles' arms naturally cross with a brow lift. And the tingling in his lips is still alive.

Derek’s mouth widens in an _O_ , eyes jerking to his left and behind. “Right! I’ve just got to finish up the meal, but I trust you’ll make yourself at home, yeah?” He’s already walking back off from where he came, patting his right thigh as cue for Ash to follow. “Nothing’s off limits.”

It’s not a minute later that Stiles is drooling over Derek’s white walls, wooden ceiling beams that give the apartment just an edge of rustic vibes, and the _view_ , honestly –

Ash demands Stiles' attention once again, pulling him out of his dazed veneration for the location, the apartment, _Derek_ to remind Stiles with a curious snout in Stiles' cardboard box of knick-knacks that – yes, he has a job to do, and it doesn’t involve allowing rapture to build for the circumstances.

Winding Derek’s steps (not staircase, just steps protruding from a wall!) is rather daunting, Stiles finds – especially with a considerably cumbersome package on load, trying to hold the box to his left so he can place his feet properly. Once he’s firm on the second level, though, well – all that talk about ‘ _it’s the journey, not the destination_ ’ is deemed bullshit.

Stiles is first confronted with Manhattan’s skyline, the fade between dusk and evening that’s too often missed with the blink of an eye. This high up one can see the gradation of shades so purely from indigo to violet to a lilac edging on apricot (because the sun doesn’t go down without a fight), towers like silhouettes of lighthouses, shining beacons to all those lost and weary. He swears city nightlife is a galaxy of stars all on their own just as hopeful wishes are lain to rest on both.

He also swears his favorite color isn’t purple and that he’ll stop trying for inspirational when all he’s been able to achieve is pretentious, but –

The pup is pawing at his leg again, whimpers tear-jerking, honestly. So Stiles takes in a deep breath, extricates his eyes from a view he’ll never be able to claim his own and sets his box on the _gorgeous_ dark, wooden flooring to let Ash have a peek.

Once the dog has sussed out that there’s nothing detrimentally incriminating with what Stiles' brought, Stiles grabs the first thing on top and wields it like a weapon set to conquer Derek’s master bedroom. And, really, the _Star Wars_ quote “A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away…” in crocheted quilt form meshes nicely with Derek’s color scheme of maroon, black, white. But that’s only the first strike.

Five minutes later there are Star Wars plushies – Skywalker, Princess Leia, R2-D2, Yoda, etc. – atop the new accent quilt footing Derek’s California King, a Knock-Knock Jokes book on his bedside table, a Dunder Mifflin Paper Company rug haphazardly strewn in the right wing of Derek’s U-shaped floorplan – which looks to be a no-nonsense home office with a sleek desk and looming chair. And Stiles _may_ have gone a bit overboard in requesting the digital imaging team at work photocopy his face into wall-sticker form, especially considering it was a bitch to flatten onto a translucent shower curtain with the backside of a ripped man on it, but Stiles thinks the attraction fits quite well in close proximity to Stiles old toothbrush, deodorant, and shampoo.

Last but not least, Stiles dumps Derek’s five hundred pairs of socks into his underwear drawer so that Stiles can shove a few items he pulled from his dirty laundry into the new space.

Honestly, Stiles likes it. He thinks it adds character, livens the place up. After capturing a few shots on his phone he picks the box back up and braves the stairs to place his final home deco on the main level.

A quick peek into the kitchen reveals Derek leaning over to peer into the oven, which shows off his tight little ass – nice – and means Stiles has time to finish off the rest of the apartment with what he has in his duffel. Hello, Halloween!

There’s a bunch of garland, mainly, but also fake pumpkins and foam bats and wall stickers. Not to mention a big whopper of a wreath that’s a bit squashed but looks nice anyway once Stiles has it hung on the front of Derek’s door. And it should look nice considering it cost him an arm and a leg!

Stiles decides to hang his banner from the second floor landing, is climbing back down the stairs and mentally penciling in time to call HGTV about his own t.v. show when something presses on his legs and causes him to fall on his ass!

Shrieking is the only reasonable response, and what with Stiles realizing Ash is inches from tumbling off the stairs as he leaps down, he doesn’t sense Derek’s approach until the man is right in front of him, concerned and breathless. “Are you okay, Stiles? I heard a scream.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself letting Ash run up and down those death stairs,” Stiles scolds before he’s petting on and cooing at the pup, which lasts at least thirty seconds before Stiles is distracted by Derek’s sleek stereo system to the left of a granite fireplace.

Eyeing two speakers that bookend a table with an Apple Home, DVD player, and satellite t.v. box resting on top, Stiles runs his fingers over the finery like a child in a candy shop. Either side of the fireplace is paired with what looks like glorified coffee tables and tall speakers, the right table holding a record player.

While he’s there, Stiles bunches up tinsel on the mantle around a flickering light candelabra. Spooky!

“He’s a big boy, Stiles,” Derek assures as he picks up Ash and holds the dog to his chest as if he’s ten pounds, not fifty. Such an obvious werewolf, Stiles should’ve guessed it sooner.

“Is that Katy Perry?” Stiles digresses distractedly from their back and forth. He doesn’t wait for an answer, though, finding the button to put _One of the Boys_ into rotation and skipping through the tracks until he recognizes the opening notes of _Hot n Cold_ play out.

Snickering lightly at the fact that Derek has the album at all, Stiles tosses a teasing smirk at Derek. Not really one to let things go, though, he picks up, “She’s really gone down hill. Also, Ash nearly fell off the stairs, Derek.”

The man merely shrugs, pets down Ash’s back. “It’s happened before, and it’ll likely happen again.”

Gasp drowned out by Katy’s voice, Stiles' eyes bulge with enough dramatism to let Derek know he’s appalled by the statement. “Derek!”

“What’s that?” Derek nods his head toward the box Stiles brought with him. Because apparently they’re taking turns at avoiding an argument.

“It’s our plant child, Derek,” Stiles informs haughtily, biting his tongue to stop from laughing at the absurdity of it all. He can feel his jaw twitch, but he’s advanced too far into his scheme to blow his cover now.

Derek walks his way to the box at the foot of the stairs, picks up the vegetation to exam it and lets Ash down to scamper off. “It’s a cactus.”

“Yes, it is,” Stiles crosses his arms over his chest, “and you are going to take care of it.”

Faced scrunched adorably into confusion, Derek’s features gradually brighten until he’s beaming wide, crinkles prominent. “I’ve always wanted to try my hand at gardening. I have those two houseplants by the door, but they practically live on their own.”

Floored by Derek actually liking the gag gift, Stiles turns back around to grab his bearings, scan his eyes over Derek’s CD collection. Justin Timberlake, Drake –

“Dinner’s ready, babe. Come sit down and I’ll get us started,” Derek – _goddammit_ – automatically draws Stiles' attention back. He’s still smiling softly, studying the mini cactus as he walks his way back into the kitchen.

And acid is working its way up Stiles' throat. Because Derek has proven himself far too sweet to have such petty tricks pulled on him. But even though Stiles is past denial of the revelation, what’s truly sickening is that he’s still planning on going through with driving a perfectly innocent man mad. For an article he was never entirely sold on in the first place.

Stiles resolves to let any callous quips dissipate for the night before they can even be conjured.

Setting himself down at a glass dinner table, he fiddles with the black place cloth, tries to cut his eyes away from Derek who’s piddling around in the kitchen, watering the baby cactus. He can’t quite match the aroma to what Derek has cooking, but he recognizes potato at least.

Not a minute later Derek is rounding the bar to set the cactus as a centerpiece, eyes so bright when they connect with Stiles'. “Really, thank you, Stiles. It’s lovely.”

His tongue is held hostage by his nerves, features no doubt coloring in reaction to the praise. And his gut clenches because he doesn’t deserve it. Not even Derek’s palm gentling against his jaw can hone a sense of comfort this time. Stiles sighs into it anyway.

After a moment Derek pulls away, checks his watch to announce, “The game should be starting about now,” before grabbing the remote on the bar and powering on his flat screen (Which is 72 inches, but who’s counting, anyway?). “You just relax, _Słoneczko_ , while I get your plate ready.”

Stiles' eyes settle on the t.v., camera giving a panorama of wild Giants fans with painted stomachs instead of shirts. He’ll admit he’s rather intrigued with the action already being captured on the screen, and he doesn’t even notice Derek’s presence until a plate is being set in front of him.

“As you can see here,” Derek puts on a professional voice as if presenting a masterpiece on the cooking network, “we have the classic potato mashed with a bit of garlic for a nice flavor and a topping of parsley to finish it off. Next we’ve got the traditional green bean untouched by seasoning because it’s perfect just the way it is.”

Stiles is trying to hold in laughter as Derek’s presenting, too fond of the dork that he managed to get a date with. But as his eyes land on the main course, well –

“I don’t eat pork.”

Derek cuts off abruptly, mouth drawing the _O_ of confusion it’s so good at as his brows scrunch together.

“I’m sorry. I’m Jewish, like,” Stiles hurries in hopes of minimizing the offense. “I can just eat around it,” he concludes, waves his hands as if to brush his initial assertion away.

“Shit,” Derek mumbles, pivots to place the dish on the bar to his right before facing Stiles again with clenched fists and dark eyes. “I’m so sorry, Stiles –“

“No,” Stiles shakes his head emphatically, stands from his seat to hold his palms forward in conciliation, “I should have told you.”

A displeased noise garbles its way past Derek’s lips as he too shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have to apologize for your customs, Stiles. I should have known, anyway –“

Realizing this sob fest won’t get either of them very far (werewolf meet irrational anger, go figure), Stiles takes it upon himself to reach out to Derek, wrap fingers around a tanned forearm. “There’s no way you could have known for sure without asking, babe. It was such a sweet gesture – you cooking for me, and I’m appreciative nonetheless.”

Derek allows his features to settle as he smooths his palms up and down Stiles' arms, the heat of it felt even through the boy’s gaudy, crème sweater. After a moment of low exhales, Derek insists, “At least let me take you out, then.”

“Don’t be silly,” Stiles' nose scrunches with the playful tone, “I’m sure I can find something here just fine.”

Sturdy arms are wound around Stiles' shoulders now, Derek tucking his chin to eye Stiles easily. “No, I want to treat you, _Słoneczko_. You can pick or I will.” White teeth flash a grin at Stiles to ease the stubborn proclamation.

Stiles rolls his eyes in a tease, sighing dramatically as he wraps his arms around Derek’s waist, presses them closer together. “Well I guess I do know a pretty sick place.”

“Yeah?” eyebrows lift in genuine interest.

“Yeah,” Stiles murmurs, already a bit lost in Derek’s gaze even before they meet half way for a drawn out kiss, sweet and slow. “ _Or_ ,” Stiles continues when they finally draw back, noses nudging, “we could just skip the meal altogether.”

Derek chuckles heartily, allows Stiles to nip at his bottom lip once before he’s breaking the kiss to place a quick swat on Stiles' ass. “Be _have_ ,” he warns, but there’s still laughter in his rouge cheeks and twinkling eyes.

——

Stiles wishes he could claim surprised that Derek parks in the garage next to a sleek, orange, _actual_ Bugatti. It’s so impractical for New York that Stiles can only assume it’s of pretentious wealth meant to ascertain status. It does its job, at least.

The ride to Polkadot takes about twenty-five minutes from Derek’s complex, but Stiles wishes it were longer with the high he gains on the motorcycle, beeping traffic all around, harsh wind, bright lights. He’s beaming by the time Derek’s parked outside the hole-in-the-wall joint, lips spread so wide his cheeks will surely ache soon, but for once he doesn’t even care if he looks like a complete idiot.

“What’s gotten into you?” Derek questions, relaxed against his ride (yet again. They’ve really got to work on that.), eyes almost coy.

Stiles steps closer to pat the seat of the Ducatti. “I fucking love your bike.”

Derek cracks a smirk at that, nods his head lazily. “Yeah, Hadley has that effect.”

“Hadley?” is all Stiles can ask, eyebrow lifting.

“Or Antonio,” Derek shrugs, “whatever it’s feelin’.”

After a moment and a nod, Stiles declares, “I want one.”

“Well, you can have a go on this baby whenever you want.”

Stiles softens his smile, exhilaration fading into a gentle joy like the break of a wave. “C’mon,” he says, nodding toward the entrance of Polkadot, “’m starved.”

A smile is offered in acknowledgement, hands stuffing in front pockets as Derek stands tall. “Are you trying to educate me,” Derek inquires on the choice of fare.

The purse of Stiles' lips is mainly to hide a laugh, and the automatic eye-roll helps the façade as well. “Maybe, Mr. Hale.” He grabs at Derek’s elbow to pull him towards the cafe.

“Right,” Derek starts, feet still dragging behind Stiles, “You better not steer me wrong on the menu. I said I studied Polish, not that I lived in Poland.”

“We’ll keep it simple this time,” Stiles assures before he steps up to the counter to order, accepts Derek’s attempt to reroute the topic.

There’s a new guy at the register that looks to be in his late teens, a bit too obvious in his eavesdropping. But Stiles doesn’t much care. “Can we get an order of cheese and potato pierogi, De Volaille, and Beef Tripe soup? Ask Miranda for Stiles' special seasoning, please.”

The kid nods, doesn’t falter on the customized instructions, at least. “’s that all?”

Stiles eyes Derek in offering, Derek sidling up just behind him to rest his palm on the younger’s lower back in acknowledgement. “Just water, thank you.”

“Two waters, and that’ll be it,” Stiles reaffirms.

Cash register noise. “$15.27.”

Stiles reaches for his wallet, but Derek grabs his wrist before he can pull it out. “This one’s on me,” Derek declares.

“You’ve got to stop spoiling me, Der.” Stiles defies, “Let me get this for you. It’s the least I can do.” He allows a soft half-smile, is sincere in his wishes.

“Don’t think I won’t pay you back for this, Stiles,” Derek relents grudgingly, eyes his date faux-sternly.

Stiles can only sigh, pat over a pec. “You’re too good to me as is, sourwolf.”

Derek’s nose wrinkles adorably, and Stiles has to pull his attention back to the employee. Credit is due that the kid remains professional, and Stiles can only hope he doesn’t go blabbering off to the ladies in the back about the disgusting duo making eyes at each other in the front.

“That’ll be just a bit,” the kid (they don’t have name tags, damnit) informs as Stiles runs his card through the reader, “I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”

A nod Stiles offers, eyes Derek to jerk his head toward the closest table. Actual words are apparently overrated right now, so the two wait in silence as their cups are filled with water.

It’s a bit crowded in the joint, but that just means more business for the workers that he’s made friendly with as well as reason for Stiles to look elsewhere while he gathers his bearings. A group of five guys is pigging out behind them and to the left, and Stiles can’t help but to admire the shine of the glass window that allows him to view their reflection.

Derek’s seemingly comfortable with the quiet between them, though, fiddling around with the salt and pepper at the end of the table.

So Stiles takes the opportunity to eye the man’s physique, black Henley doing wonders for all of the defined –ceps of Derek’s upper torso. And the stubble along his jaw is almost scruffy, making him appear more soft and cuddly than harsh, his lips so _pink_ –

“What are you looking at, _Słoneczko_?” Derek taunts, smirk sharp as he purposely flexes his chest, arms to lean elbows on the table.

Stiles won’t allow himself to be embarrassed. It’s only natural to want a taste, anyway. “That mouth. Imagining how easily you could pin me to a wall, fuck into me.” He’s leaned back casually, tearing at bits of his straw’s paper to give his hands something to do. He knows he looks like a nonchalant fucker.

Derek doesn’t even twitch, just eyes Stiles. “It _is_ our fourth date, isn’t it?” he asks, but it’s rhetorical. They both know.

“Long past due, I’d say,” Stiles inputs, leans forward as well to level Derek’s stare.

There’s a smirk fighting the even set of Derek’s lips, Stiles can tell. “Maybe if you behave the rest of the night we can see about going back to my place.”

Stiles would be high-tailing it out the door if he thought Derek were serious. As it is, with the sense that his date is merely playing with him, initiating their bedroom games early, Stiles hardly resists an eye-roll.

He leans in closer for effect, hushes, “Let’s not act like we both don’t know how I set you off, Der. It’s a wonder you’re able to lie to yourself so easily in acting like _you’re_ the one that’s ‘well-behaved’. Everyone sees the way you eye me up, how possessively you handle me.” Stiles settles back, the space between their lips having diminished to mere inches. “Be a good boy for me tonight and I’ll see about finally allowing you to let loose on me.”

A sort of impenetrable bubble seems to have solidified itself around the pair. The air is almost heavy with intensity, hard to swallow. And Derek’s eyes are dark as ever, unmoving from Stiles'. Because a nerve was definitely struck.

“You’re playing at a very dangerous game, _Słoneczko_ ,” Derek finally states, tone steady, stance firm. Like a snake coiling up to strike.

“Order for Stilinski!”

And just like that, their bubble pops a leak. The raw energy drains slowly but surely until both men are sitting up straight once again. Stiles doesn’t know how to feel about their exchange. On the one hand it’s pretty much set in stone that he’ll be getting some tonight. But on the other it seems their relationship has gained depth. And Stiles can’t have that – not when it’s all for an article.

Stiles allows Derek to thumb his chin, press an intent-filled kiss to his lips before he’s adjusting his burgeoning erection subtly, standing to claim the food he paid for.

On his way back to the table Derek is practically vibrating in his seat, a golden retriever (is the joke unethical now that Stiles knows he’s actually a wolf?) trying to sit still for his master, knowing he’ll be rewarded if he does. Stiles didn’t actually mean for Derek to be _that_ kind of good, but. He can’t contain the chuckle as he takes his seat across from Derek, presents their meal.

“What?” Derek inquires curiously, manages to tone down his animorphism enough to side-eye Stiles.

“Nothing, sourwolf,” Stiles coos, lips tugging up gently.

Derek almost manages to scorch him with a glare, but the real fire is ablaze in his cheeks, and Stiles has uttered the pet name often enough to realize that Derek actually likes it.

Stiles busies himself with setting up their meal, marjoram sending his senses into a meltdown because it’s been too long since he’s had a bit of Miranda’s seasonings.

After Derek manages to tame his blush, he’s salivating for sustenance as well. “So what’ve we got here, then? Did you ask for a special dish for me?” It’s teasing and it’s confident, and Stiles loves both when emanating from the man.

“Sauerkraut might not be your taste,” Stiles shrugs, begins spooning at the portion of said food that’s dark with flavor. “But you can always give it to me.”

“Can I try yours?” Derek requests as he tears to get the generic plastic fork out of its baggie confines.

Stiles spears a bite of the chicken, takes a moment to close his eyes and savor it, tries not to audibly moan. It’s definitely got a kick. “You sure you can handle it? Really is spicy, babe.”

Thick eyebrow pull together endearingly as Derek sports an offended moue. “I’m a grown boy, and I can probably handle more than you think, Stiles.”

“Oh, really?” Stiles' own brows lift in a challenge as he pushes his side of the foam container toward Derek, “Show me what you got, then, _wolfie_.”

To his credit, Derek really does handle the fiery flavor well enough – is surprised at first by the intensity, but he nods his head in approval, is able to taste the flavor past the heat. “It’s good,” Derek confirms his delight, turns the dish back around toward Stiles as he opens up the container of soup and swallows a spoonful, “I wish I could cook like that.”

Stiles is much too pleased to admit that the man can try something new and admire it so readily. “You’ve just got to have the right spices, really. Maybe I’ll teach you sometime.”

“Yeah?” Derek asks, eyes alight.

A moment to reassess, Stiles restructuring his thought process. He shouldn’t be tying himself to Derek. But this is just mundane, dispensable chatter. Not meant to be followed through with. “Yeah. Not that I can cook worth a shit, but I can show you the spice isle.”

Derek rolls his eyes, and they eat.

Derek carries the bulk of the conversation after Stiles' relapse into his own head, but Stiles doesn’t mind listening to Derek talk about his family, about how they’ve lived in New York all his life but regularly vacationed in Europe, how his younger sister is off in South America and all of his immediate family have found a place in Staten Island. How he misses traveling, longs to get swept up in new places every once in a while, but that the ache is just a dull throb now and is soothed when he’s able to vacation for the holidays.

Stiles can definitely relate to being worried for family and missing living in other places. And he wants to hear more, is the thing. The cadence of Derek’s voice and his easy rhetoric makes for great stories, but there’s also profundity to his ramblings. And all of it makes Stiles want to confide in Derek as well, tell him about his small family back in California and how just a phone call every few days isn’t enough, how all of it is too much sometimes and he wonders if moving to New York will actually pay off.

He wants to know Derek. So he stands up abruptly, jars the table a bit and rudely discontinues Derek’s narration of adopting their family dog to mumble a “bathroom” before he’s stumbling his way to the back of the restaurant, past the curtain pulled on his left to hide the kitchen and into a horribly lit closet that few would dare to label a bathroom. It’s just a sink, toilet, and trash can scrunched into approximately 20 square feet of space.

Not that he should complain, really: At least there’s clean, running water and a door to offer privacy. So he splashes his face and avoids his reflection. He needs to crack Derek before the man can worm his way any further into Stiles' life.

Stiles steps out of the restroom renewed and ready to drive his unfortunate date insane. Except as soon as he’s entered back into the tabled area Derek is casting a genuinely concerned gaze over him, warm eyes wide and imploring.

“Are you alright, Stiles?” Derek stands in nurture, a bit coddling as he caresses Stiles' elbow to guide him back into his seat.

“Peachy,” Stiles plasters a smile to his face as he avoids the man’s gaze.

Derek doesn’t speak for a moment, obviously is wary of Stiles' response, but he moves on anyway. “Well don’t let me horde all the food.”

“Oh, I’ve got to be careful,” Stiles dramatizes, “If I eat too much you might start calling me fat.”

A moment of pause.

It was a reach to try, but he did so anyway because he read something about guys hating when their love interest discusses weight. But he sounds like a fucking idiot, and Stiles is embarrassed of himself. Especially considering throughout his teenage years he had to actively try to gain weight. While it’s just an act that will get the job done, isn’t okay with sounding like a complete fool when he’s got to live with himself.

“Oh, no,” Derek eats up Stiles' asshole comment, “I’m not playing that game. Maybe because my sisters complained about it all the time growing up, but also because I was a little chubby before puberty hit…,” he trails off, purses his lips as if he’s working the best angle to combat Stiles' attitude. “Don’t think carrying weight is a bad thing. Not that I believe you’d be able to hold much if you tried. You look beautiful now, and you’d look beautiful in whatever size.”

Stiles is silent, allows Derek to respond while mildly suffering in his own shame. “Fuck,” he finally mutters, lets his head fall into his hands, “It was a shit joke. I didn’t mean it, and I’m sorry. Can we just forget I ever said that?”

Thick fingers find their way to Stiles' cheek, run along his jaw to tilt Stiles' gaze toward Derek. “Are you sure you’re okay, _Słoneczko_?”

There’s a heavy sigh and flutter of lashes as Stiles allows himself to nuzzle into Derek’s hold. “I will be.”

Derek eyes him intensely as if daring himself not to dig deeper. He finally nods, thankfully goes back to spooning potato into his mouth.

It gives Stiles room to shake off the dregs of humiliation. Then he goes back to the drawing board and decides that tonight _really_ won’t be the night to pull anything else batshit. He already redecorated nearly all of Derek’s second floor, after all.

Thinking about the posters from hell all over Derek’s bedroom, Stiles doesn’t know if he should laugh or beg forgiveness. He goes with the second option: “Hey, Der? Can I show you something?”

His date relishes the attention, smiles nice and big as he encourages Stiles with a nod.

After shoveling the rest of the soup into his mouth and grabbing the last bite of chicken, Stiles stands up and reaches for Derek’s hand, momentarily ignoring Derek’s bemused gaze to guide the man toward the back of the restaurant, down the hall.

The purple curtain doesn’t actually do much to close off the rambunctiousness of the kitchen from the rest of the joint, but when Stiles draws it back it’s like he’s entered into a new world. Polish seasoning is fragrant as ever, the temperature up a few degrees while a group of women hop around each other to stir up something on the stove or get a better look at the tiny t.v. they’ve got stationed on the far wall.

Shelby notices them first, grows a lopsided grin and offers a slap of the hand. “Hey, bro. Haven’t seen you around lately.” She then directs her gaze to Derek, sticks out her hand in greeting. “I’m Shelby.”

Derek leans into Stiles' back to reach the girl’s hand, gives it a sturdy shake. “Derek. Nice to meet you.”

Most of the ladies are respecting boundaries and resisting bombarding, but Miranda comes out from behind Zoe and a newer guy to pat at Stiles' back with a wide grin. “ _Czy on jest twoim chłopakiem_?” she flits her eyes to Derek.

Instinctually, Stiles steps back to distance himself from the direct threat, but he just ends up falling into Derek’s chest, which doesn’t exactly help matters much. Coughing, Stiles rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “ _Mówi po polsku_ ,” he mutters after he has a hold on his creeping blush, curls into Derek subtly.

Miranda – the savage – doesn’t seem embarrassed by the news, just lets out a rough bark of laughter and then greets Derek (in _English_ ) and invites the two to lounge in the kitchen and watch the Yankees game with them.

Which was the reason Stiles brought Derek back here anyway. To watch the game that Stiles inadvertently made Derek miss. Not to meet Stiles' friends.

So Stiles let’s everyone slap Derek on the back, shoot rapid-fire questions at him about baseball, how he knows Polish, and his deepest darkest secrets. Derek fits just fine into the group, leans against the counter to laugh at something Jan says and counter Zoe’s conclusion on who will win the championship.

Seeing as he’s left everyone in good hands, Stiles allows himself to sink into the background, quieten the surrounding noise until he can hear his own thoughts more clearly, observe the scene before him play out as if he’s looking through a glass window.

And on the forefront of his mind is the war between whether or not he’ll be able to go through with fucking with Derek’s head. He had made positive progress towards an article by getting between the man and his sports as well as by sabotaging his apartment. And he’s been quite annoyingly clingy as well. But isn’t he just reversing all the developments by leading Derek to a game he wouldn’t otherwise see and giving him space to socialize?

In the end, with Derek’s gruff chuckles and scruffy cheeks just on the outskirts of his consciousness, Stiles decides he’ll start anew the next time he sees Derek with a fresh, tailored game plan. But for now he’ll enjoy himself.

——

Stiles feels relatively blithe as he enters Derek’s apartment, troubles lightweight on his back after the high of speeding through nightlife Manhattan. Ash’s yipping at his feet, and the view of the cityscape below is breathtaking. A rainbow of lights illuminating the darkness that the sun left behind.

“I want to pay you some attention, _Słoneczko_ ,” Derek starts as he closes the door behind them, soothes circles into Stiles' lower back, “but can I catch the game highlights first?”

Unbothered, really, Stiles nods and traipses his way to Derek’s vast white sectional, the leather smooth and rather comfy against his worn muscles. The crash from an artificial high is always trying, and it's honestly a feat to toe off his Converse.

Derek putters around with his swanky gadgetry before turning on the t.v. and standing a mere five feet away from it to lend his attention to Sportscenter.

Calling Ash over seems much more appealing to Stiles, so he does so, fonds gently over the wiggly pup as he runs his hand down Ash’s back, lush black fur.

An indeterminable amount of time passes to prompt in Stiles' nodding off, the low chatter of sports commentators and the crackle of the fireplace (that Stiles wasn’t even aware of Derek kindling) a muted background and the perfect lull into respite.

At some point Derek slips down onto the sofa next to Stiles, secures an arm around Stiles' shoulders that the younger leans into until he’s got his right leg thrown over Derek’s, arm tucked over a firm chest and nose nuzzled to the crook of Derek’s neck.

“You sure are sweet when you’re sleepy,” Derek chuckles low in Stiles' ear, smooths his palm down Stiles' spine until thick fingers are gently massaging the small of his back.

Stiles can only hum in response, aroused by the piney citrus clinging to Derek’s throat, shirt collar. Somewhere in a far corner of his mind he’s able to grasp that pine and citrus shouldn’t overlap to stimulate both his olfactory and taste receptors, but that doesn’t stop his tongue from darting out to flick just under Derek’s jaw.

Derek barely flinches, takes the attack in stride to simply lean back further into the couch, spread his thighs wider, deftly work calloused fingertips under the knit of Stiles' sweater to press Stiles' hips heavier to his leg.

Encouraged and awaking from his stupor, Stiles regains a bit of muscle control to roll his stiffening dick down onto Derek, let the man feel it twitch as he suctions his lips just over the hollow of Derek’s throat, tongue laving to soothe any sting. A few nips are thrown in for good measure as Derek’s hand comes up to caress the nape of Stiles' neck, sharp gasps making Stiles want to grind harder into Derek’s sturdy thigh.

“Hey, hey, slow down, baby,” Derek coos, rubs his warm palm under Stiles' sweater to rest between his shoulder blades as Derek’s other hand fixes itself on Stiles' jaw.

Stiles hadn’t actually been aware that pitched whimpers were running rampant past his lips, but as soon as he pulled his mouth away from Derek’s neck he had to assess his mark, kitten-lick over the abused skin. And that had let his vocals run free with noise, apparently.

Presently, Stiles takes a deep breath, stations his left hand to the couch and the right just over Derek’s heart, begins maneuvering himself onto Derek’s lap, which Derek helps him with by trailing his hand from Stiles' jaw to the backside of his thigh to pull Stiles over both of his own legs to settle on top of them.

“Slow,” Stiles consents, locks his eyes with Derek’s. And he does move leisurely, fingers kneading over Derek’s pecs before strolling their way to the back of his neck to nestle themselves in the shorter locks at his nape.

Looking into Derek’s eyes the whole while, the man is solid and assured, but his eyes are wide and a bit hazy. Stiles imagines he himself looks much the same, ruffled by a bit of sleep left in his features and mouth blushing.

They both know that they’ve already gained too much momentum to gently roll to a standstill; stopping now would be disastrous – bruised limbs and a mess of an intersection. So they’ll have to settle with not making it past the green light and instead too far over the crosswalk. And that’s possibly the worst analogy Stiles has ever conjured, but –

He kisses Derek then, determined yet gentle as he frames a top lip and allows his nose to rest against Derek’s. And Derek opens up in response, snakes his tongue out to trail Stiles' bottom lip just as his hands grip hips.

It’s sloppy, really, with both men looking to gain the upper hand. But Stiles loves it, loves the pressure of paws squeezing his ass and teeth tugging at his lip and bright eyes wide and dark and wanting. Not to mention, Stiles can feel Derek’s bulge pressed to his ass, and the grunts uttered every time he rocks down against Derek are dangerously wanton.

Soon Stiles won’t be able to hold off longer, will have to get Derek into his mouth, but for now he takes the time to map out the ridges and contours of Derek’s shoulders, chest. Lazily undo the top few buttons of Derek’s Henley just to offer a cheeky smirk and get the same in return. He thumbs over pert nipples and elicits a sharp yip from Derek, the latter making quick work of punishment by landing a playful swat over Stiles' butt.

“You just can’t get enough of my ass, hmm?” Stiles taunts, cuts through the silence as he rises on his knees slightly, pushes back into the cup of Derek’s hot palms with bold intentions.

Derek just tugs Stiles back down, ruts up and swivels his hips without breaking eye contact. “I would watch that mouth, _Słoneczko_ ,” he lifts a thumb to press against Stiles' lower lip, drag it down lingeringly, “Only my good boys get special attention.”

Inexplicably, a whine chokes its way out of Stiles' throat, distorts his features into displeasure and pushes him to cocoon into Derek’s embrace, snuffle into his neck for the intimacy of skin to skin contact. And he doesn’t know which further instigated the awful flush creeping down his neck – the type of play Derek’s words conveyed or how he reacted to them.

“Stiles,” Derek calls his notice, calm and stern as he removes his feverish hands from Stiles' backside, helps the crème sweater to find its place covering Stiles once again. “I need you to look at me, love.”

Still trying to recover from the sudden onslaught of emotion, Stiles just clenches his fists tighter into Derek’s shirt from where they’re serving as a barrier between chests, squeezes his eyes a bit tighter and presses his forehead into Derek’s collarbone.

Mercifully, the older boy allows Stiles to come back at his own pace, offers soothing touches up and down his arms and gentle noises Stiles thinks a mother might sound to reassure her offspring. (Which is a bit odd considering the situation, but.)

Eventually Stiles raises his head and lets his hands fall lower against Derek’s stomach, fingers aching a bit from the release of their tight hold on Derek’s shirt. And a new blush is eating its way at his cheeks now because he’s a bit shy to meet Derek’s gaze that’s hotly observing his expressions, slowly creeping up in degree to where it’s burning a hole through Stiles' skin. Or at least that’s what his mind plays it up to be. All he can do to avoid confrontation is turn his cheek, focus on Derek’s inked forearm.

A tender kiss is pressed briefly just below the jut of Stiles' cheekbone, and Stiles can’t help but lean into it slightly. But he’s only left with tingling skin once Derek pulls back to get down to business. “We can stop now, Stiles. We don’t have to take it any farther until we’re both ready.”

Stiles only puckers a pout at that, not wanting to quit but not knowing exactly what to say to explain what came over him.

Derek tries a new tactic: “Have you ever played out a scene before, Stiles? We don’t even have to go there, but I know you’ve reacted positively to dom/sub overtones before, so that’s why I initiated it.”

“I’ve never – I don’t…” is what Stiles fumbles with, sighing deeply because he sounds like a fool.

“That’s alright, baby,” Derek coos with his hand running up and down Stiles' spine over the sweater, a coaxing pressure almost. He seems to understand what Stiles is getting at. “Just let it out, yeah? It’s just me.”

That shouldn’t strike a cord inside of Stiles. They’ve barely known each other four days, after all. But Stiles resonates with Derek’s point anyway, feels like the man is one of the more accepting, genial souls he’s ever met despite his gruff exterior. So he leans in to share a slow, supple kiss, hands pressing flat to Derek’s waist.

Righting himself after a moment to breathe in and out, Stiles articulates, “I’ve never explicitly defined any sort of BDSM scene with anyone. Like, aspects may have been incorporated, but…”

“That’s fine,” Derek assures, rubs soothing circles into Stiles' jaw, “We don’t have to put a definition to it. Just whatever you want and are comfortable with.”

“Okay,” Stiles enunciates, eyes still downcast, finger fidgeting over Derek’s stomach, taking note (not for the first time) of the thicker hair around his navel it.

A moment flits by. “Do you want to tell me what you were feeling when you closed off?” Derek questions softly, head tilting to try and secure the boy’s gaze.

Again Stiles goes for Derek’s buttons, locks eyes on wispy chest hairs because – hot. “Um,” he starts distractedly, “I just felt really vulnerable, like. I didn’t want to think about not pleasing you, maybe?” his explanation ends in a lilt, a question as he finally meets Derek’s thoughtful eyes.

Derek’s features soften in a bit of understanding. “No, Stiles. You could never disappoint. Nothing you’d do would be wrong.”

Falling back into Derek’s chest is the most natural thing Stiles has done all night, muffling an “Okay” against Derek‘s shoulder.

“Can I ask where we’re at?” Derek requests after a minute or two of relative silence, fire dancing still and Sportscenter talk dulled. “We can do whatever you want, babe. Cuddle, sleep, play a bit of video games or something,” he chuckles at the end.

“Um,” Stiles raises his head to flick his eyes to Derek’s, “I think I want to be good for you.”

“Yeah?” Derek lifts a brow, tugs up a smile, “you’re being just perfect right now.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, the movement allowing the release of an unbelievable amount of tension. “I want to be your good boy,” he mutters, bounces his ass down over a half-hard cock to drive home the point.

“Alright, alright,” Derek tries to laugh, but it comes out as more of a groan in that his dick is definitely perking up with interest. “Stay still so I don’t bust, sweetheart.”

Predictably, Stiles only smirks mischievously at that, grinds just a bit slower for a pause.

“Stiles,” Derek warns, delivers a rather harsh smack to Stiles' backside.

An exhale hiccups out of Stiles as his brows furrow. “You can’t just spank me whenever I’m naughty, Derek.” His arms nearly cross in defiance, but he imagines Derek would merely eat it up.

Slightly affronted, Derek’s eyes widen, tone daring, “Oh, is that so? Because I swear you just admitted to being naughty,” Derek emphasizes, eyes unyielding, “And it seems to get you back on track. I thought you said you wanted to be my sweet boy.”

“I do,” Stiles croons, stuck between disgruntled and submissive, “but spanking?” he gives a dubious look.

Derek settles into a bemused smirk, leaning up to mouth at Stiles' jaw, incite a gasp. “I believe you like it, _Słoneczko_. Am I right?” he whispers, pulls back for an answer.

Flaming cheeks stand as response in lieu of words, Stiles dropping his chin.

“You know the stoplight system? Green for go, yellow for caution, red for stop. If you feel like you won’t like something, just tell me yellow or red and we can pause to work over it. Alright, baby?”

Stiles nods, lifts his chin and presses his smile briefly to Derek’s lips, excited to get moving. “I’m green, so can we go?”  
One of Derek’s hands cups the nape of Stiles' neck, the other finding its way to fiddle just under the lip of Stiles' jeans, and he really can’t help but chuckle at the man’s eagerness. “Yes, Stiles.”

Another kiss for good luck is administered, Derek settling back against the couch and allowing Stiles to run free with his antics, the latter dipping to lick back over his handiwork at the hollow of Derek’s neck before kissing down wiry chest hair.

Stiles idly works over Derek’s skin, shuffles to his knees slowly and tugs up Derek’s henley to finally get a look at his stomach. A garbled whimper resonates throughout the open space, but Stiles hardly takes note, plants his hands on Derek’s jean-clad thighs to watch Derek lift the shirt over his head and toss it to the end of the couch.

Stiles can’t help mewling again – this time for attention. Craning his neck upward and puckering his lips is met with an amused smirk from Derek who doesn’t dare jibe, just lets Stiles steal a peck. “That’s it, babe. Let me hear you.”

Urged on, Stiles can’t help suctioning his mouth just below Derek’s naval, fingers curling into Derek’s hips as he swirls his tongue over the taut skin in his reach, raspy hairs caught up in the mix, and a needy groan sounds as he leans back slightly to get an eye of Derek’s happy trail. He’s such a sucker for body hair it’s almost worrying. And he bets Derek has _a lot_ of it considering he can wolf out.

And the only thing grounding him is Derek’s palm at the back of his skull, soft encouragements.

Not exactly thinking over what he’s aiming to articulate, Stiles searches for Derek’s eyes, rushes, “I might want to call you 'Daddy,'” as soon as Derek’s gaze connects.

Immediately blood rushes to the peak of Stiles' cheeks (which, honestly, how much blood does he have if he’s already flushed and hard as a rock?) but Derek dismisses embarrassment quickly. “That’s very brave of you to admit that for me, _Słoneczko_.” His voice is gentle and reassuring as his fingers curve to fit against Stiles' chin. “And my cock really likes the idea as well.”

An airy giggle bubbles out of Stiles' throat, Derek’s joke serving its purpose to relax them both further. And without further ado, Stiles focuses back on worshipping Derek’s torso, straightens up tall to kiss gently over each of Derek’s blushing nipples before he finally fits his hand over the bulge of Derek’s solid dick.

On his knees is where Stiles thrives. And the longer he’s positioned like so, Derek’s thighs encasing him, he can feel the confidence rushing back into him. It’s something about being able to hold someone’s vulnerability in the palm of his hand (literally), witness the stuttering underside of a jaw and the overall loss of control.

And the fact that he’ll be able to unravel sure, poised, ardent Derek Hale sends a power rush straight through Stiles, which pools deep in his belly, accumulates in his balls.

Stiles continues to pet over Derek’s cock, locking eyes with him for the older to offer a shallow nod. Leaning forward is almost involuntary. But Stiles trusts his more primal urges, noses his way from one side of Derek’s tummy, across his lean muscles and to the other side, moves back center to whine over and place open-mouthed kisses just above Derek’s waistband.

“That’s such a sweet boy,” Derek murmurs, eyes bright and endeared with a subtle twist of his cherry lips.

For all the bravado Stiles has amassed, Derek’s compliment still calls red anew to his countenance. Stiles tucks his chin and preens under Derek’s attention.

An abrupt vibration shocks a flinch out of Stiles, Derek going stock-still before grimacing irritatedly to fit his hand into his front pocket to retrieve his phone. The device goes off again, and Stiles realizes it must be a call as Derek furrows his brows to glare at the screen, backlight harshly bright, blue-washing skin.

“Everything alright?” Derek answers the call, fixes his eyes somewhere on the wall behind Stiles.

He doesn’t exactly mean to let out a dissatisfied grunt, but Stiles thinks his cause is dignified. Who the fuck puts off getting head to answer a call?

Derek tosses him a brief, contrite look with scrunched brows and a frowning pucker, but Stiles is hardly mollified, instead more determined to show Derek what his mouth can do.

“I’m kind of busy right now,” Derek stresses bluntly, tone clipped. His hand goes to push back a bit of Stiles' hair that’s drooped over his eyes, palm resting to cup his cheek – presumably so the boy knows Derek’s attitude isn’t result of his own actions.

Stiles doesn’t waste time, goes straight for the buckle over Derek’s jeans and then his button and zipper. Derek’s obstructing hand tries to settle over Stiles' but the younger boy merely slaps it away, sends the iciest glower he can muster up at his date.

The rewarded glare is naught to mess with, actually sends a chill down Stiles' spine. Luckily, Stiles is too pumped on adrenaline to back down, has Derek’s jeans down as far as they’ll go (without Derek actually moving) to fit his hands over gray boxer-briefs and cup the outline of a well-endowed cock, thick and heavy.

“I’m hanging up, Erica,” Derek recites mechanically, voice tight as if he’s trying to hold air in his lungs.  
Stiles' interest is piqued at the name, but then Derek’s phone is thrown to the end of the sofa and the man growls a “Fuck, Stiles,” which sends Stiles' organized thoughts into a whirlwind.

Patience is not one of Stiles' better-developed qualities. At least not when he’s horny and has a point to prove. And all of the above apply currently, so it’s with little grace that Stiles reaches inside Derek’s pants, revels in the body heat of Derek’s groin to trace his rasp of naval hair downward and around heavy balls.

“That’s it, baby,” Derek encourages huskily, rising slightly to push his jeans and pants off his legs with the help of Stiles.

And suckling tiny kisses over the V of Derek’s groin, the creases just before thigh, over feverish nuts takes the cake for the highlight of Stiles' night. There’s something so primal about his innate desire to relish in the overwhelming smell of man, musk and all, springy curls tickling his chin.

And he’ll give in to it every time.

Derek’s dick is jarring against the tanner complexion of his stomach, already ruddy. Veins litter its expanse and the foreskin is tight around Derek’s rose-pink head, and Stiles doesn’t bother to muffle a moan as he tilts his head to mouth from base to tip, graze his tongue to try and get a rise out of Derek.

The man seems to know what Stiles wants, at least, scolds a, “C’mon, Stiles; quit teasing.”

Not that the instruction works very well. Stiles does press fingertips into the flesh of Derek’s inner thigh, though, his other hand cupping the base of Derek’s dick to stand it up as his wild eyes connect with Derek’s slightly dazed pair.

Wanton hums fill the air from both parties when Stiles gets a good grip on Derek, holds the man’s eye while he kitten-licks at the tip in efforts to grant himself a bit of pre-cum, dick kicking against a broad, smooth tongue. And Stiles can’t help but smirk, puff out his chest at the reaction, which isn’t exactly astonishing. He’s played with a mirror before, and he knows exactly how good he looks in action.

“Shit, babe – ‘s right,” Derek stammers with hooded eyes and fingers creeping to work over his nipple.

Stiles lets go of Derek to lick his palm before delivering shallow strokes from the base up, his right hand running over Derek’s chest to help him out a bit, offer touch. Bending down again to gentle his open mouth over the tip, Stiles can imagine how it feels – humid and tight. His rampant thoughts send a twitch through his cock, but his own stifled pleasure is more than compensated with a flush of bittersweet pre-cum over his tongue, a louder grunt from Derek.

It’s a bit slow, Stiles knows, but he wants to be able to become familiar with Derek’s wide girth, the taste of his nut, anticipate how it’ll stretch and paint his throat to help get himself worked up.

Dragging his hand back down from the expanse of Derek’s belly, Stiles uses his free palm to peel back the foreskin from Derek’s flared head. It’s such an angry red that Stiles almost takes pity, stretches his mouths delicately around it and rests his tongue on the underside, the rim, pumping a bit tighter at the base while twisting just below his mouth. It honestly appears like he’s wringing Derek’s dick, but Stiles has practiced the trick on himself enough to know that it sends a shock of overstimulation to your neurons, tires you out and makes you blurt out stickiness in the confusion of whether it’s painful or pleasing.

Predictably, Derek’s cock spurts out a steady stream of heady wet, helping Stiles to slick up his play toy.

“Stiles,” Derek reacts with a helpless gasp, sits up straight and plants his feet firmer beside Stiles' knees to grapple for a sense of control, “your mouth – come here, sweetheart.”

The man grips at Stiles' jaw so tight there are sure to be bruises, but Stiles will pardon it because Derek’s other hand fits itself under his pants, squeezes his ass hard, and a quick tongue shoves into Stiles' mouth for a desperate kiss.

The pained whimper is hardly out of Stiles' throat before Derek is jerking back, which really only causes confusion and an even more pathetic whine of tight vocal cords.

“Fuck,” Derek curses, mouth in frown and eyebrows jarred, “We didn’t even talk about roughness or painplay. Are you alright?”

If anything, Stiles thinks he’s contracted whiplash from the change of mood. “What – ?” he so thoroughly articulates, a garbled choke following because he wants Derek’s touch again but the man’s got his hands to himself. “Do you mean – ? Are you worried about manhandling?”

Derek’s lips only thin at that, and Stiles is sure Derek won’t say more if he thinks he’s done something wrong, so Stiles wraps his fingers around Derek’s wrists, tugs them each to his mouth to place delicate kisses on the insides before he places them over his shoulders, cups Derek’s cheeks to offer a reassuring press of lips. “We did talk about this, Der. I’m green. You have to trust me to use my colors when I need to, and I have to trust you to do the same.”

Eyelids flicker over dark irises for a moment, Derek breathing deeply in and then out before he opens them again, strokes his hands over Stiles' neck, his pulse point. “I’m sorry, _Słoneczko_. I’m still working with knowing my own strength, and – God – your hands are so good; I had to feel you, but then that wretched noise you made –“

“I know,” Stiles flushes prettily, grins a bit shyly because he doesn’t know how that came about either. “I didn’t mean to, and it wasn’t because I didn’t like it. I want your bruises all over me, and you already know how much your hands on my ass get me going.”

The smug little twist of a smirk plants itself on Derek’s lips for the nth time. “You do get off on it, don’t you, baby?” Heavy paws find their way to the front of Stiles' jeans, Stiles' breath hitching as Derek gets his pants down his legs, leaves the briefs in place but sinks his palms under the article and over the plump curve of Stiles' cheeks.

A sickening keen works its way out of Stiles' throat, and he darts forward to attach his mouth to Derek’s spit-slick lip, bites softly as he tries to cant back into the pressure of Derek’s hands. With his fingers playing against Derek’s stomach, grounded, Stiles reinforces, “Green.”

A sweet half-smile is offered before Derek agrees, “Green,” squeezes his ass heartily before slipping his hands out of Stiles' underwear. “Let’s get you undressed, baby.”

Stiles consents with a nod, fumbles to get his skinnies off of his sock-clad feet before raising his arms and allowing Derek to remove his bulky pullover, set it delicately on the back of the couch.

It seems they both share an affinity for worshipping their partners’ bodies, chests. Because as soon as Stiles is settled back on his knees, Derek has his fingers trailing over prominent collarbones, pecs, tracing moles with eyes entranced.

Stiles lets Derek do as he wants, but he doesn’t let anything stop him from taking Derek’s cock into his hand once again, relishing in the feel of it after so many obstacles between them throughout the night. 

And Derek hardly takes notice, too busy inching closer and closer to Stiles' nipples.

Stiles lets his jaw drop and quickly encloses the head of Derek’s dick once more, tongues at the slit before flattening out his tongue and bobbing once, twice, letting the slick sound of sex coat his senses before he slowly works his way further over Derek’s girth, lips stretching wide.

“Yeah, baby,” Derek mumbles, voice husky and lewd as he finally allows himself to smooth his thumb around Stiles' nipple, causing them to pert up, “such pretty tits.”

Hardly surprised, honestly, Stiles is. Just figures Derek has a thing for nipples – a feminization kink at that. Stiles is even a bit intrigued, never having tried it out before but his dick throbbing nonetheless.

Subsequently, Stiles lets himself off of Derek for a moment to catch his breath before dragging down the foreskin to lip at the tip. He rubs his palm over the sensitive glans, witnesses a vein pop out in   
Derek’s forehead as he stifles a grunt, pinches Stiles' nipple.

It’s a bit of a blind, desperate mess them going back and forth with their antics. But it’s so fucking satisfying.

Ducking to get Derek back into his mouth, Stiles hollows his cheeks and covers his teeth, gingerly sinks down until Derek’s grazing the back of his throat. He lets it rest there to get used the tickling pressure, but his cool is almost lost when Derek twitches out more pre-cum, making Stiles groan and prickling the beginning of tears.

When he pulls off he knows he looks like a hot mess, a fat tear pooling in his left eye and cheeks red from exertion with a string of drool connecting his lower lip to the crown of Derek’s cock.

Even still, “Such a beautiful boy,” Derek coos with his thumb sweeping sweetly over the arch of Stiles' cheekbone, finally back from his little trance over uncharted skin. “So good for me.”

It’s a hiccupped sob, shed tears that preempt Stiles breaking any sort of resolve and clutching at his clothed cock, gasp echoing out in relief.

“No,” Derek asserts, defined warning in his clear tone, “No touching. My good boys don’t get to touch themselves without permission.”

Stiles wants to cower, and he doesn’t know why, doesn’t understand why Derek has this affect over him constantly. So he whimpers instead, clasps his hands behind his back to show that he wants to please.

“That’s it, baby boy, trying so hard for me,” Derek murmurs. A hot palm fondles Stiles' cheek for the younger to nudge into. “Color?”

“Green,” Stiles rushes, kisses at Derek’s palm and pleads with his teary doe eyes.

“Alright,” Derek grabs his prick, jerks off a few times, “do you wanna open up for me, sweetheart?”

“Um,” Stiles fidgets a bit, trying to keep his fingers from going numb in the death grip he’s got them interlocked in, “Can I have a kiss first please?” The request it so timid, but Stiles can’t help it. He can’t control how he reacts to Derek’s allure.

Derek’s brows dip to form a crease before he leans forward to concede Stiles' surging up for a near-frantic, wet lip-lock. “Of course, _Słoneczko_ ,” Derek declares, reinforces by holding onto Stiles' chin and pressing a peck to his slack mouth once more after they’ve separated.

Dutifully, Stiles settles back on his heels and tilts his chin up to offer an open mouth and eager tongue.

Groan rumbling in his chest, Derek can’t take his eyes off of Stiles' submissive enthusiasm, his pretty little tongue and smooth skin. He scoots forward a bit and Stiles moves with him to hover his mouth just in front of Derek’s dick. A tap against Stiles' bottom lip and the boy chases it with a furrowing brow, already another whine.

“Hey, baby,” Derek garners attention, “I’ve got you, alright? You’re gunna get plenty, trust me. Now are you gunna let me help you swallow my cock?” he lifts a brow, taps his tip against Stiles' lip again to test the boy’s reserve.

A jolting nod is Derek’s answer, Stiles not exactly trusting his vocal cords not to embarrass him.  
“Come forward, then.”

And Stiles does, holds his mouth open as wide as possible to let Derek feed in his cock generously. Again it rests at the back of Stiles' throat, both of them easing into the stimulation so as not to become overwhelmed.

“Christ, I could bust already just looking at the dirty mouth, _Słoneczko_.”

It’s a gravely scrape in his throat and a squeeze of the eyes that keeps Stiles from shoving down on Derek’s dick at the compliment, automatically wanting to show off. But he refrains, nevertheless, feels more hot tears trek down his flaming cheeks as he breathes calmly in and out of his nose.

After a bit Stiles thinks he can take more, locks gaze with Derek’s lust-dark green eyes as he expands his throat, sinks down just an inch more. He tries flexing around Derek’s width, comes back off of it when he elicits a curse.

And he knows he must appear debauched and fucked, lips bruised and hair crazed, eyelashes thick with clinging dew. The harsh breathing only adds to the look.

Derek settling a hand to the back of Stiles' skull serves as a comfort and encouragement, Stiles eating it up as he greedily swallows the offered cock, sinks as low as he dares with two more inches still he hopes to get down his throat.

“The tip, baby – be a good boy,” Derek grunts out, the treatment working at him as he begins to lose his cool.

Stiles gladly sucks at the head, relishes the satiny, stiff flesh, Derek pumping out fluid relentlessly. It’s such a shame Stiles has done little to play with the foreskin, so he pulls off to drag it up and over the tip, pinches it closed for a shock of sensation to Derek, works his tongue between skin and glans. Citrus seems to exude from Derek’s pores, apparently, his fluids bitter-tart with the hint of it as well.

And Stiles imagines he could stay like this for days, enjoying his hard work and reveling in the limelight – a new age art form to Stiles' deprived desires.

“Shit, baby boy. The things I could do to that mouth – wicked.” The praise is a choked grunt. But it rings loud and clear. “Don’t think you can get away with being naughty just because your tongue is so good, though,” he adds as if by second thought, a ramble.

Stiles is almost not able to concentrate on such complex sentences while his hands are pumping, so he peers up at his dom (because he’s accepted that dom/sub play is exactly what they’re at, and he’s so weak for it) to try and maintain grip on reality, but his eyes are blurring with tears, and his ears only pick up lewd slurps and skin on skin.

Still, Derek continues his spiel, seems to only be emboldened by the lewd boy’s interest between his thighs: “The next time you pull some disobedient shit like you did while I was on the phone just because you’re a greedy little boy,” a rough thumb smears at the corner of Stiles' mouth, forefinger pressing against hollowed cheek to feel the glide of his cock inside, “I’ll lay it out on you so hard my hand will become a tattooed imprint on your ass.”

Gentle touch contrasting with severe words, Stiles erupting a whimper that’s only strangled around Derek’s dick. It’s all a rush of sensation straight to his head, panic trickling down his spine because he doesn’t know why he can’t decide if he’s more turned on or resentful of the warning, hiccups edging up his throat because he’s stuck between wanting to show he’s not a bad boy, that he doesn’t need to be punished but craving Derek’s heavy hand all the same.

And it’s so wet that Stiles sobs around the furious, throbbing crown of Derek cock, pulls back to blubber out, “Please, Der, want it so bad.” In the back of his mind he’s able to fret that there might be snot soon, but at the forefront is still the overwhelming carnal urge to please and be used.

Derek wasn’t expecting a breakdown – that much is certain. But he’s quick to gentle his demeanor and lean forward to Stiles' rescue. “Hey, look at me, sweetheart, focus,” Derek advises with his forefinger and thumb caressing Stiles' chin as his other begins thumbing away furious tears as they fall.

He does, he does look to his dom, twists his fingers in their clasp because he has to touch but Derek didn’t tell him he could move.

After about a minute of hushed nothings and pettings Stiles is still sniveling in recovery, but his eyes are steady as they can be, and his breathing is leveling out.

“I know what you need, Stiles, and you have to trust me to take you there, yeah?” Even though his voice carries authority, those puppy eyes are popping out, affected by Stiles' instability. “You’ve been so good for me, sweetheart, and I need you to calm down or else you won’t be able to help me finish.”

He feels so out of it, so vulnerable and he knows he needs to get a grip but the waterworks just keep flowing, and the regret that he won’t be able to see Derek’s pleasure through to the end has his features contorting in trepidation, these god-awful animal noises clawing their way out of his throat. And fuck – there’s definitely snot.

“I know,” Derek coos gently. His hands busy themselves running up and down Stiles' bare arms, his throat, raw cheeks. “Everything’s alright, _Słoneczko_. Just breathe with me, and then you can get a taste.”

A nod is all Stiles can offer, listening to Derek’s deliberately deepened breathing so that he can match them, slow his heart rate. On the way down, Derek warns that he’s going to reach for his tossed henley, retrieving it to dab gingerly at Stiles' tear-soaked face and snotty lip. Stiles is actually a bit surprised at the lack of drool.

Once his head is clearer, Stiles hushes, “Green.”

Derek’s a bit dubious: “Are you sure, sweetheart? Don’t get me wrong, your mouth is better than anything, but I want you to be able to enjoy this too. We can settle down now and there will be no foul.”

“I want it, Der, please,” Stiles requests, extremely pleased with his level tone even if it’s still too quiet.

It takes a moment, but, “Alright, baby. Can I see your hands?”

Hesitations plays on Stiles' account as well. Carefully he releases his fingers from their clasp: he knows they’ll be sore tomorrow.

Derek doesn’t comment on the wariness, just opens his palms for Stiles' to lay against, cautiously lifts them up to brush his lips over the knuckles. “My brave, brave boy,” he murmurs, a soft, indulgent smile.

The urge to hide his face from Derek is absolutely ridiculous, especially considering Stiles has had the man’s enormous cock down his throat and is about to go back at it. But logic hasn’t played a role in any of Stiles' actions thus far, so all he can offer in response is averted gaze, ever-glowing cheeks.

Stroking his neglected prick is Derek’s next step after having placed Stiles' palms on his thighs. It hadn’t begun to soften throughout their rather intense therapy session, is still dying for release, and Stiles doesn’t know if it’s because Derek just has a staunch sex drive or if Derek too gets off on holding control over his lover’s competence.

Either way, Stiles sits patiently, giddiness welling back in his gut at the prospect of being filled up. And his grin is hardly contained.

“Look at you,” Derek is back to taunting, basking in his role, “my polite boy absolutely gagging for it.”

He can’t deny it, merely opens his mouth back up in awaitance. And he’s granted use just a moment later, Derek easing his cock past Stiles' lips and over his wet tongue. Being able to work his mouth again is shiver-inducing-ly good, Stiles taking no time at all to fit his throat around the greater majority of Derek’s dick.

After a few moments to clutch his throat tight around Derek with noisy glucks and Derek cursing to high heavens as result, Stiles pulls up a bit, catches Derek’s gaze and entwines two of their hands to let Derek know what he wants.

Graciously, Derek delivers the request, catches his left hand around Stiles' neck and carefully lifts his hips to fuck gingerly into Stiles' pleading mouth.

Keening contentedly, Stiles can imagine the obscenity of his appearance, but he thinks his view of a groaning, yielding Derek is just as nice – if not better. Something about taking apart this collected man sends a thrill through Stiles, and he finally allows himself to acknowledge his own desire as it keeps his dick hoping and longing stiffly.

Wanting to get this show on the road, Stiles begins bobbing his head down to meet Derek’s shallow thrusts, risks cupping Derek’s tender, angry balls for the satisfaction that would come from being able to feel them tense up and shoot out.

“Oh, Stiles,” Derek moans heatedly, “Baby, thank you; that’s so good.”

Stiles tugs lightly on Derek’s sack, goes down a bit deeper and clutches tighter to Derek’s fingers he’s still entwined with even though his hand begs for relief from the ache.

“Don’t swallow yet. Hold it on your tongue,” Derek instructs, fingers pressing Stiles' head down farther.

He stays sheathed on Derek’s dick for a few moments, let’s Derek jerk up roughly to beat the inside of his throat even though his bloodstream is quickly soaking up all the air in his lungs. But Derek knows himself well, pulls out just before he begins nutting.

Panting, tongue out and greedy as ever, Stiles can’t decide whether to watch Derek’s pulsating cock or his blissed-out expression, flits back and forth to witness both. And he obeys so well, both hands clasped in his lap so that Derek can jerk himself to completion.

Wave after wave splatters over Stiles' tongue, lips, jaw, eyelashes, and his tongue waters, the musky, animal taste already resonating with his filthy taste buds. But he keeps his tongue out, curls it slightly to hold all he can.

Derek can’t seem to take his eyes off of Stiles' face even to blink, the sharpness of his features and the smooth of his pale skin contrasting so well with Derek’s milky seed. With one last tug he nearly collapses, lets go of his raw dick to grab ahold roughly of Stiles' exquisite jaw. “Such a good boy for me, _Słoneczko_ ,” he exhales in a rumble.

It’s with a thirsty throat Stiles finishes his job, spitting out Derek’s cum over his cock before licking it back up, covering all he can of the length and sucking him dry. He continues to mouth lazily up and down Derek’s dick until Derek whines with discomfort.

“Let me get a taste, baby,” Derek requests with dazed eyes and a heavy thumb steering Stiles' chin. He’s fighting to not fall completely out, Stiles can tell – a toddler ignoring sleep. Wait, maybe that’s an inappropriate analogy for the situation.

But Stiles gladly meets Derek’s lips, lets his tongue be sucked into Derek’s mouth and pets over downy thighs and quivering abdominals until Derek comes back to himself. “You taste so good,” he admits, wants to be able to treat Derek like the older has him – so nicely, “I can’t get enough.”

A pleased smile while Derek edges a thumb through his spunk all over Stiles' face, feeds a willing mouth with it. “Come up here,” Derek huffs, still working on his breathing, “Let me touch my perfect boy.”

Stiles scrambles off the floor with Derek’s hands gripping his upper arms to assist, carefully sits himself just before Derek’s wilting cock so he doesn’t cause discomfort. “Please, Der,” he’s back to his whimpering self, “I’ll be so good, I promise.”

“You are, sweetheart,” Derek assures, “you are so perfect, so gorgeous for me.” Arms wind tight around Stiles' torso, the younger humming into the security and shamelessly rutting his clothed prick between their stomachs with toes hooking against the edge of the sofa for any type of leverage.

He’s back where he started, coming full circle with his nose chilling the clammy juncture of Derek’s neck. And the heavenly scent still exudes, strong but nowhere near overbearing, the matching essence to the man’s gentle, convivial soul Stiles has been able to acquaint himself with. It’s a balm to any apprehension melding in Stiles' core that could possibly lead him to regret what’s partaken.

Stiles almost doesn’t want to move from his position, rather enjoying Derek’s broad chest, shoulders, firm arms. And he feels almighty on Derek’s lap, which he won’t even try to explain because he can’t quite decipher why.

But then Derek’s sponging delicate kisses up the side of his neck, ironing his rough palms down the expanse of his back, molding over taught muscles to grab a handful of ass.

A muted mewl Stiles lets escape, gives himself a moment to present his throat in submission and bask in the teasing affection. Soon Derek’s lips become too ticklish, though, and Stiles has to lean back to smirk at Derek’s cocky advances, brushes loose hairs back off his man’s forehead.

Derek’s so incredibly adorable, Stiles thinks. Always poised, ruggedly handsome, but now he’s sleep-tired and fluffy, playful. Scruffy jaw and bushy eyebrows, goofy looking with glinting eyes and pretty lips. The hair, though. The hair sticking straight up as Stiles holds it at bay. That’s what sets off a torrent of giggles from Stiles.

“What are you laughing at, you nut?” Derek questions, smile inescapable as he begins playing with Stiles' cheeks, pressing and spreading with a kiss to the underside of his jaw.

Stiles settles down gradually, is stained with a half-smile, though, and fond eyes. “I love being able to mess you up,” he murmurs, gaze flitting all over Derek’s countenance from chin to forehead.

“That you do, _Słoneczko_ ,” Derek affirms with a hint of somber reserve, but then he’s puckering his lips, and Stiles can’t help but oblige, multiple pecks that gradually grow giddier, messier, harder to break away from.

Derek presses Stiles' hips flush against his lower stomach, curses out, “Fuck, Stiles, you’re so hard.”

That fact had been lost on Stiles. Not that he didn’t know, but it wasn’t at the forefront of his mind until Derek mentioned it. And now that the situation is back into focus, he can feel the discomfort distorting his disposition, eyebrows furrowing and jaw clenching as he digs his fingertips into Derek’s shoulders, grinds against Derek’s washboard stomach..

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Derek demands, his aura of dominance back in full force with stern eyes and a set jaw.

Stiles is helpless to his audible gasp at the brashness, eats it up nevertheless. “’m sorry. I don’t know – I didn’t –“ he cuts off, tries to marshal his thoughts into a coherent explanation as to why his own desires were almost unconsciously put on the back burner. “I wanted to be good for you,” he finally whines the most logical answer he has. Once he’s set his mind on something he doesn’t let anything get in the way, after all. Hyperfocus, hello ADHD.

“Hey, focus on me, Stiles,” Derek instructs, steadies the boy with his palm at the square of Stiles' jaw, fingers splayed behind the younger’s ear and thumb just in front. He waits for eye contact before, “I want to make you feel good, but first and foremost I need you to feel safe. You don’t feel safe when you get yourself worked up, do you?”

The question is more rhetorical, but Stiles answers anyway: “No.”

“And if I you’re trusting me to get you off, get you there, then I need you to be completely honest with what you’re feeling so I can talk you down before you even get worked up.”

Stiles nods along, sinking into the pressure of Derek’s palm. “’m sorry, Derek. I didn’t mean to not tell you how badly I need it. I don’t mean to lose control.” As if reminded, one of Stiles' inner gators starts pumping his blood quicker, his tone subsequently pitching.

“I believe you, sweetheart,” Derek concedes, “And don’t feel like you’ve done anything wrong necessarily. This is new, and we’re learning how we work together. I should have been more alert as well.”

Fingers clench in his lap, but the pain sort of helps Stiles keep rooted to reality. “Are you mad?” he near squeaks, apprehensive of the answer but itching to know anyway. And his nerves must be written all over his face in wide eyes and a drooping frown.

“No, Stiles,” Derek croons, thumb so gentle to Stiles' cheek. “I’m not angry. You've been such a perfect boy for me, so how could I be mad, hmm?”

Stiles lets his eyelids flutter closed at the praise, embraces the light flush to his cheeks. Next he presses lips to Derek’s palms, begs out a “Green.”

“Alright,” Derek’s tempo is still slowed, “tell me what you want.”

“Um,” Stiles works to express his urges, “I want to cum.”

“Okay. I’m going to stroke you off, then. Can you get my fingers wet, please?”

Stiles readily sucks in Derek’s first two digits, laves his tongue between and swirls around, measuring the crooks and thickness of knuckles. Simultaneously, Derek hums encouragement, brings up his left palm to lick at.

Too brief of a time span passes before Derek’s extracting his fingers from Stiles' wet cocoon, and Stiles' displeased grunt is eased when Derek drags fingers down his crack and wraps a hand around his cock all at once.

Stiles bucks up with a start, gasps treacherously obscene-like with a dropped jaw, digs his nails into Derek’s shoulders.

“Let go, baby boy. Let me make you feel good,” Derek mutters at the edge of Stiles' jaw, spreads Stiles' ass cheeks wide with his thumb and pinkie to tease around the dry, tight furl. He also takes the opportunity to stroke Stiles' rigid cock roughly, balancing the pleasure scale between not enough on one end and almost too much on the other.

“Fuck,” Stiles hiccups out a strangled cry, pounces on Derek’s raw mouth for something to do, but really he’s only panting, not kissing. The almost tickle-light press of Derek’s fingertip is intoxicating.

“That’s it,” Derek commends, eases a damp finger into Stiles' quivering hole and keeps his jerks steady, thumb sweeping over the head to gather slick.

“Der,” Stiles tries to push back on Derek’s finger. He’ll welcome the burn of the stretch, wants to squeeze around something, _anything_ at this point.

“Be careful, baby,” Derek is quick to admonish, back and forth they go, “I don’t want you hurting yourself, but you can fuck down on my fingers if you think you can take it.”

“I can. Please,” he assures, is already performing the honors by swiveling in tight circles to eat thick knuckles past his hungry rim.

Derek gives Stiles' prick a squeeze, takes a moment to readjust grip before he’s stroking back up and down, adding a twist near the head that has Stiles pinching his eyes shut so they don’t bulge out. “You take it so well, babe, work so hard for it. Are you trying to show off for me?” the question ends in a tease, likely to rile Stiles up in the best way.

It’s a pathetic whimper that answers, Stiles bouncing up and down easily on Derek’s sturdy digit. He’s restless trying to find the best angle, hit that spot inside of him, so he reaches back to grasp Derek’s wrist. “Another. I need another,” comes out rude even to his own ears.

“Oh?” Derek hums, clearly amused, “I thought my good boy is supposed to be polite and ask for things he deserves, not demand.”

Stiles fusses messily, “I am your boy,” almost defensive even though it’s hard to hold a severe argument when you’re fucking yourself crazy on someone’s fingers, tears threatening to spill from stimulation.

“Yes, you are my boy, Stiles, you are,” Derek leaves Stiles' dick to pry away the locked grasp around his right wrist, pull out of Stiles while the boy is too shocked to fight, “And I know how sweet you can be for me, so why don’t you try again?”

“Mmm,” Stiles cries nonsense, cock throbbing in pulses and hole aching to be stretched because he’s so, so close. “Daddy, please – I’ll be so good, I promise – I’m, sorry,” it’s a blubbering mess. And, really, is either actually surprised that there are loose tears?

If Derek is stunned by the address he doesn’t show it, takes it all in stride. “Ask me for what you want, sweetheart.” Knuckles smooth back floppy hair.

“Your fingers, please,” Stiles falls forward into Derek’s shoulder, bites at the silky flesh to relieve the ever-building pressure in his belt.

Derek is appeased, apparently. “Okay, scoot up,” he instructs as his left hand cups Stiles' ass to help him rise, right hand sneaking between quaking thighs to get in between spread cheeks, work two fingers into Stiles' ass diligently.

The moan of satisfaction is so lecherous beside Derek’s ear, the older crooking his fingers slightly to work with Stiles who’s tilting his hips slightly, looking for the perfect angle. It’s obvious when they find it, Derek rubbing a tender bump and Stiles turning his head to suck at Derek’s neck.

Sanity is a lost cause after that, Stiles bouncing and grinding a mile a minute like he was born to take it up the ass, Derek greasing the slide by murmuring ‘that’s it, baby’ and ‘good boy’ as leeway for heavier desires. And somewhere between Derek praising his boy for such a wet pussy and promising to fuck all the way down his throat, Stiles climaxes.

He doesn’t come completely untouched what with smearing off against Derek’s clenched abdominals, but it’s the principle of the matter. That Stiles came with little friction on his cock. And Stiles' traitorous mind is already conjuring kinks to play up in order to achieve new bedroom goals. (Feminization at the top of the list, maybe himself cumming untouched in lacy panties while Derek pounds into his wet ‘pussy'. But that’s for another time.)

And Derek’s own member begins to plump at the filthy scene, at the amount of seed Stiles spurts after holding his orgasm off for so long, smearing pearly over the swollen head.

But neither have the wherewithal to initiate another round.

Coming down is euphoric itself in that Stiles' muscles have time to breathe, rebuild from their stress. And he nearly lets himself fall asleep on Derek’s shoulder, the man himself only fostering the rash notion with heavy palms that bleed security into Stiles' bones and a mouth that wet suckles up and down his drooping shoulder.

Soon the lulling palms are replaced with dancing fingers, counting the knobs of Stiles' spine, tickling ribs and scratching jellied thighs.

Stiles wants to be more annoyed. As it is, though, all he can do is deliver an admonishing nip to the pulse of Derek’s throat – half in efforts to hide his own grin. After Derek swats at his butt knowingly, Stiles leans back, drapes his arms over thick shoulders to greet Derek coyly.

“Just came back to me, and you’re already acting a little tart,” Derek eyes Stiles playfully.

While Derek’s already hot on his trail Stiles decides to throw him off by being candid: “I love your body hair, sourwolf,” prods his forefinger at the swell of Derek’s lower lip, “just enough to pull on.”

Derek is bright-eyed and sideways-smirked under the praise, so Stiles spaces fingers over his lower belly for emphasis, noses at a soft cheek to place a kiss at the corner of Derek’s grin. “Love.” Another kiss, tip of his tongue sneaking a swipe between his man’s lips. “Can’t wait to feel your pubes rashing against my hole. 

From sourwolf to Daddy in seconds, Derek growls out a grunt, a new glint in his eyes. “Keep going, baby; tell me how much you love my dick.”

It’s with great effort that Stiles keeps his flush to minimal saturation. He can’t have Derek too cocky, after all. “About that – I think I’m gunna name it Spiderman. Red and sticky.”

Instead of splutters and rouge cheeks as Stiles had anticipated, Derek’s brows pinch together to dissent: “No, Stiles. What about Thor or, like,” he pouts, fingers tapping against Stiles' hip, “the Hulk?”

Stiles gurgles out a sharp bark of laughter, dips his head because he's really too tired to keep going. He doesn’t give up without a fight, though. “Hmm,” he looks out of the corner of his eye as if considering it before glancing back down, studying Derek’s flaccid prick and dark fuzz, “Maybe the Hulk. You’re definitely a grower,” he shrugs as if apologetic. But really he’s imagining a knot. _Yum_.

Catching on to the banter, Derek’s rolls his eyes but won’t let himself laugh unless he reveals he’s all bark and no bite, rubs over Stiles' asscheek to squeeze, nips at his jaw. “I’ll show you a fucking grower.”

“Oh, anger issues as well,” Stiles retorts cheekily.

“Let’s talk about your smart mouth, then.”

“Let me live, Der,” he replies in a moan, pushes Derek’s sweaty hair back like he loves before slotting their lips together, nudging noses.

It’s not much of a kiss, really, Derek finally giving up and neither energetic enough to pull anything fancy, instead just letting the caress linger.

Derek pulls away with a wet noise after their moment of interlude. “I’m not letting this go, but hop off, babe. I need to clean us up before you pass out.”

It’s indeed for lack of energy that Stiles doesn’t protest, allows Derek to help him off his lap. But there’s not a position he can take that won’t promote either discomfort or a mess, so he whines until Derek helps him stand up.

“I’m sorry, _Słoneczko_ ,” Derek apologizes even though it’s not really his fault, “I’ll be just a minute.” And then he’s off – presumably to the kitchen or bathroom.

Stiles is hardly able to feel ridiculous with his soft dick out and briefs half off his ass before Derek’s back, rag in hand that he uses to gingerly clean up the tacky spunk on Stiles' tummy, his mostly desensitized cock. Pants are pulled upright as Derek finishes with the warm clean-up, relaxes his hand to the dip of Stiles' spine. “There we are. You can lay down now.”

“Kay,” Stiles hums, scratches at his belly where it’s cool from evaporating water. He tries sitting first, but his butt is a bit sore. On the way to lay on his stomach, though, he puts pressure on his knees, and, “Ow!” comes out in a harsh whimper. Nevertheless, he doesn’t try shifting once he’s settles on his stomach.  
“I’ll be right back, baby. I’ve got something to help the aches.” And Derek is off again, Stiles whining complaint because he just wants to be able to sleep.

Settling into Limbo, Stiles is just on the edge of sleep when Derek’s heavy palm smooths over his cheek, coaxes droopy, whisky eyes alert. “Let me take care of you, sweetheart,” he murmurs as he lowers to his knees in front of the couch.

Derek tugs down Stiles' briefs, the latter dangerously unresponsive. A chuckle is indulged in, Derek placing a kiss to Stiles' full, rounded butt before cooled lotion is gentled to his cheeks. “Alright, turn on your side for me,” Derek instructs next, Stiles groaning but complying for Derek to apply the ointment to his knees as well.

And Stiles is halfway gone into dreamland still, but the tingling press of lips to the back of his hand keeps him conscious, cool, poignant lotion silky on his knuckles. The massaging pressure of Derek working over achy joints is so pleasant that Stiles doesn’t fight the low moan. Soon the skilled fingers are gone from Stiles', but whatever lotion that’s been sunken into his skin is working its magic, joints less tender already.

A denser salve is swiped over Stiles' lips, just under his nose and eyes – Vaseline, maybe, judging by the lack of aroma. And then Derek’s puttering around, a pregnant pause before he’s quietly climbing over Stiles to ease into the gap before the back of the sofa, lifting Stiles' head to place a fluffy pillow under it, pulling Stiles' briefs back up and draping a duvet over the both of them.

Ash eventually patters across the wooden floors and curls up at their feet as Derek clicks off the t.v., drops to the couch and curls an arm over Stiles' chest to pull them flush. They’ll talk everything over another time.

Stiles isn’t even able to keep up his stream of quixotical meditations like he’s so prone to do just before sleep, is surprised he’s not crying from the utter relief, bliss he’s swaddled in with a yielding body to melt into.

Cloud nine is an actual place, as it turns out. You just have to climb high enough in the sky.


	5. Day Five

| _Sunday_ |

“So you didn’t eat him out, just took him out?”

“Correct,” Stiles replies, already jaded from the subject. Normally Stiles would laugh if only because his own sense of humor has rubbed off so thoroughly onto Scott, but Stiles is currently commiserating with Alli over what must have been a painfully immature relationship between them.

A moment of silence, suspended time before something cracks. “That was absolutely awful, Scott,” Allison proclaims, “Worst yet.”

The sun’s rays are suddenly quite a bit fiercer up top of Scott’s apartment building. But at least Allison’s sense enough to change the topic acts as a bit of sunblock. And Stiles' shades hide his eyes from the heat of Scott’s gaze particularly well.

“I thought it was pretty good,” Scott shrugs, kind of mopes (likely because Allison is unimpressed) but stays propped up on his lawn chair to continue eyeing Stiles, “Looks like there was at least some tongue action with the hickey you’ve got on your neck.”

Tensing up is instinctual – fight or flight. Because he was hoping neither would mention it. “Shut up, man.” He follows up by turning on his left side to face away from both Allison and Scott.

Neither comment again, pages flipping in Allison’s magazine and Scott’s ‘indie’ music playing from his speakers at the corner of the roof. It’s getting too chilly to be laid out in shorts and a tee, but the waist-high bricks that enclose the roof block whipping wind. Truly a beautiful, late October day.

Stiles feels like shit. He really shouldn’t have come to Scott’s; he knew he would only drag the trio’s morale down. But after taking a taxi to his own place and standing in the quiet foyer – no tapping claws, no beaming skyline – the atmosphere was too eerie to lay around by himself in.

It wasn’t just the need for human presence, though. It’s how sick Stiles feels when he remembers what he’s done to Derek’s second floor, why he’s with Derek in the first place. It’s such a drastic shift from the contentedness that shielded him like a coat of armor all night with Derek and the morning after, soft laughter and shy smiles until Stiles took his leave. And Stiles thought he might puke as soon as reality hit him. Because someone like Derek doesn’t deserve to be toyed with, and Stiles is garbage for doing so.

Bosco sniffs his way over to Stiles with a green and white threaded rope hanging from his mouth, eyes so droopy Stiles can’t help but take pity and concede a lazy tug-of-war game. The Boxer switches into his territorial mode naturally, a menacing growl low. He’s come a long way from rescued on the street.

Low chatter is to Stiles' back, Allison mentioning inviting Zoe over so her and Scott can discuss their acting aspirations, Scott inquiring about Alfie and whether or not they’re up for a night out in the next week.

“You know, Stiles,” Allison finally breaks the wall between them just as he knew she would, “it’s alright to just toss the article. Or make it up and date Derek normally.”

Another punch to the gut, aching and churning. But Stiles knows he’ll have to talk it out, so he turns back over and lets Bosco have the toy. “I can’t just scrap the story, Alli: I need to keep my job.” A sigh, the sun obscuring his left eye’s vision even with his sunglasses on. “And it’d be pointless to cut all the crazy now. I fucking ransacked his flat.”

Scott doesn’t disguise his cackle, but Allison does, the brunt of her amusement hidden by her aviators. “It’s not too late to just come clean to him. Start over.”

And he’s entertained that thought briefly in snapshots of what could happen. But the imageries are so ethereal – too idealistic: breathtaking view to come home to, expensive wines, a horde of pets, a warm body to fall into. It’s what everyone strives for but few ever achieve.

No. There’s a difference between floating your head in the clouds and chasing your dreams. And what Stiles wishes forefront is to head his writing career. _That’s_ attainable. And if it takes annoying some unfortunate dude to death, well, then so be it.

Reinforcing his goal out of the mayhem alleviates the weathering weight on Stiles' shoulders, at least. “I need to step my game up,” he announces as he sits tall, plants his feet on solid ground, “This guy’s a fucking trooper, let me tell ya.”

“Alright then,” Allison props herself further up in her lay, takes a swig of her martini from the miniature patio table between them (because apparently it’s that kind of discussion), “Let’s go back over what all you’ve done to see what we can escalate.”

“Scott – ?“

“Alexander’s _Universal Don’ts_?” the man in question prompts, “Already on it.”

“Thank you,” Stiles offers, and even though Scott isn’t the most considerate person at times, it’s moments like this that remind Stiles why they’re best friends. “So on our second date we went to the game where I got between him and his sport and acted super jealous,” Stiles ticks off the offenses on thumb, then forefinger. “Third, I acted jealous again, got between him and the movie, and then got him into a fist-fight, which wasn’t actually the plan, but it couldn’t have gone much worse.”

Scott lets out a laugh and Alli just tuts, wraps her lips around her flimsy yellow straw and scratches behind Bosco’s ear.

Stiles as well can’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of the situation, but, “Moving on: Fourth, I ejaculate Halloween decorations all over his flat. And put random shit in his bedroom. And made myself a drawer.”

Allison finally cracks a god-awful snort. “Establishing a place for yourself seems like a sure-fire way to turn him off, especially since he’s probably territorial.”

“Or he might actually like having you in his territory, especially if he’s an alpha looking for a mate,” Scott argues.

“Fuck!” Stiles throws his hands up in the air and then rests his head in his hands.

“Does he know that you know he’s a wolf? Because you could’ve put up furry shit or something,” Scott urges a bit too enthusiastically.

“Okay,” Stiles waves his hands around, see-saws his head, “but what if he likes that? Or what If _I_ find out I’m into his wolfy ass during sexy times? Then that kind of defeats the purpose.”

“Okay!” Scott proclaims with a grossed out frown, “That’s enough! Why don’t we just sort out a plan.” Once Stiles and Allison are ahold of their amusement, Scott reads off his phone: “Call him and be at his house constantly, become bro-pals with his friends, use baby talk, and basically act like you’re married.”

Stiles begins to nod, mull it all over.

“Oh, wait,” Scott interrupts his brainstorm, “maybe like have sex, cry, and _then_ start planning your wedding.”

A rush of heat attacks Stiles' cheeks, so he ducks his head to act like he’s still thinking, tries to calm the images from the night prior so he doesn’t pop a boner in the moment. After a bit he thinks he’s alright, and if there’s excess color in his features he can just blame it on UV rays. “I could kick up the baby talk quite a lot.”

“Maybe make him a scrapbook using Photoshop,” Allison helps.

He looks off the roof and at the surrounding buildings, allows honking traffic to background his thoughts. “I could see if I could find his mom’s number and get some pictures, like,” Stiles formulates.

They’re all quiet for a minute or so before Stiles has an epiphany. “Scott, Derek smells like an Alpha, doesn’t he?”

Scott scrunches his nose up. “Maybe? You know I’m not too good at guessing rankings when I haven’t met them.”

“Well, dude acts like an Alpha,” Stiles waggles his eyebrows, “and what would be a dealbreaker when an Alpha is dating?”

“Another Alpha personality,” Scott snorts, “which you have.”

Stiles rolls his eyes because it’s each person’s preference in the sack that matters, Stiles can confirm as of last night. “No, whether or not the betas approve.”

Scott raises his brows, scratches his chin. “Fair enough.”

Then Bosco’s rubbing against Stiles’ knee again, begging for some love, and, “Mariana’s volunteering at Social Tees today, yeah?”


	6. Day Six

| _Monday_ |

“ _Ice, ice, baby_ –“

Derek coughs out an unamused grumble, averts his eyes to Isaac who’s seated at his desk, shoes surely scuffing up the finish as the man bobs his head while scanning through Webster’s Dictionary.

It’s nearing midday by now, and he and Boyd have been at this since 8:00 – tossing a little hacky sack between each other and Isaac in hopes of circulating their dammed flow of creative juices.

Isaac had entered around 10:00, a pitying crook of the mouth with crossed arms as he leaned against the doorframe, and by that time Boyd was distracted with rousing through Derek’s desk, his shelf, and Derek himself had his pressed button-up rolled up to elbows and wrinkled.

Derek’s seriously considering petitioning for a Casual Monday.

“What about glitter?” Isaac questions, pauses the game to eye their drawing board. He had begun rough sketches earlier, re-arranging numbers and word art because he has an eye for that stuff.

“Like glitter glue?” Boyd asks, question bare, “I mean, you’re the graphics guy, not me.” But he’s already got a smirk on his face as he flips through pages of the dictionary. “To shine by reflection with many small flashes of brilliant light.” His tone is flippant, lilts up on the adjectives.

“ _Shine bright like a diamond_ ,” Isaac sings out just before he drop-kicks the knitted, Bob Marley-esque toy to Derek.

Derek doesn’t offer even a ‘ _fuck off_ ’, just an eye-roll, which is how he knows they’re all on the verge of psychosis with the onslaught of ridiculous words.

“Flash, gleam, glint, sparkle, glisten, glimmer, shimmer,” Boyd carries on by way of listing synonyms. A drill that’s long passed monotonous to deaf ears.

“You could just theme the presentation My Little Pony,” Isaac starts, “What is it? Rainbow Sparkle – no, Twilight!”

Derek furrows his brow in confusion, pressure building up just at the forefront of his skull.

Boyd cracks up, tosses his head back with a startling clap. “We’ve got a Brony on our hands!”

“A _what_ – ?”

“Hey, shut up!” Isaac retorts, “I’ve got nieces is all.”

Angling away from the two bickering betas, Derek cocks a hip to eye the poster they’ve got on an easel. Except there’s virtually nothing on the board. He’s got statistics in charts to showcases why Dilaurentis Diamonds should pair with Wolfe-Mann Advertising, but he knows that numbers very rarely sell; what seals the deal is a pitch’s charisma and the sense of security – even if false – that’s captured with the plans.

What they’ve been trying to do is come up with a slogan for the campaign, because as cheesy as it sounds, catch phrases are trademarked for a reason: they work.

But they’ve gotten virtually nowhere in the past hour, attention spans burning like wick without a candle. Hazy smoke as their line of thinking. “Alright, guys,” Derek sighs, tunes back into their mindless squabble, “let’s knock off for a bit. Lunch on me?”

Everyone else at the office had the same idea, apparently, because when Derek opens up his doors to the main floor area not even Clark, the receptionist, remains. Jessica is at her desk, though, likely picking up where Isaac left off on a project when he came to help with the Diamond pitch. Derek offers a small wave that he hopes isn’t too guilt-ridden.

The back room has turned into Wolfe-Mann Advertising’s de facto break room, a fridge in one corner with a round dining table, pool table in the middle.

“How’s it going with your boy?” Isaac questions as he grabs a pool stick off its stand on the wall, begins scooping the balls out of the table pockets.

Boyd starts chortling before Derek can drag in a breath, and Derek shoots him a side-eye for it.

Because Boyd doesn’t even know the half of it, is the thing. Sure, Derek had premised what’s occurred on their few dates, but Saturday night… (or, yesterday morning, as it were). That’s on a different level altogether.

Derek briefly entertains getting it all off his chest: the ace night followed by the baffling morning when he’d finally gone upstairs. But Derek imagines there’d be something so cutting in an admission of how Stiles seems to be playing him like a drum, the butt of a whipped boyfriend joke, so Derek doesn’t spill. And anyway, maybe Stiles hadn’t meant to invade and disrespect Derek’s space – maybe Stiles is truly just eccentric.

He could also mention the fact that he finds Stiles’ decorations amusing and how Stiles leaving clothes at his den just makes his wolf smug with possession and how he can’t get that salted caramel yet woodsy scent out of his fucking nose, how he was so close to rolling around in Stiles’ dirty laundry this morning that he had to get ready in the downstairs bathroom.

Either way, Derek can feel himself closing off at the idea of a heart-to-heart, would rather focus his attention on extracurricular. “It’s been a wild ride,” he grabs his own pool stick, let’s Isaac line up the balls before Boyd’s to break.

Derek kind of immediately regrets his wording, Boyd puffing up to laugh and Isaac’s mouth twisting into a smirk, but then the bell above Wolfe-Mann’s entrance chimes, and Derek glances up – classic conditioning.

“Stiles?” is pitched out of Derek’s mouth before he’s even able to fully comprehend the scene in front of him – the man of the hour locking eyes with him before beaming out a “Pumpkin!”

It’s breathtaking, truly, the way Stiles' eyes shine and nose crinkles, his expressions so honestly emotive. But his tone is frivolous, pet name ridiculous, so Derek knows there will be no relaxation with this visit. Derek half wants to compare him to a siren maybe. Or the moon, a magical pull over everything Derek does. Unfortunately, there’s no time for that.

He clears his throat, tries to play up a genuine smile. “What are you doing here, babe?”

Stiles has made his way past the office space and is entering the break room, gaze unfaltering. “Just took my lunch hour and wanted to see you,” he stalls right in front of Derek, places his hand just below sternum with a dainty giggle before his face falls, eyes rounding, “You’re excited to see me, aren’t you, Derry?”

“Of course, Stiles,” Derek exhales, cups familiar hips to slot his mouth against Stiles' pouted lower lip. It’s not untrue, exactly: the boy’s a beautiful sight to behold, and his heat is intoxicating.

“Are you sure? Did I do something wrong?” the boy furthers quietly as he nibbles on a ruddy lip. “You didn’t call me at all yesterday.”

Derek’s breathing hitches imperceptibly as he considers being honest, confronting his love interest about what the fuck happened to his loft, but. Now may not be the time to bring it up, and something tells Derek that he wouldn’t win a battle against Stiles, anyway. “I’m sorry, angel. I was just trying to run errands, which got a bit hectic.”

Stiles pulls back after a moment, apparently satiated enough with Derek’s response, shifts some bulky carry-on higher on his shoulder and leans into Derek slightly to face their company (who currently stand awkwardly as if they haven’t been conspicuously eavesdropping).

A bit of the bravado has dissipated, and Derek would rather study the sharp of Stiles' bone structure, how it contrasts with the shy tilt of his jaw, but there are formalities to adhere to. “Isaac, Boyd,” Derek gestures at each, “this is Stiles.”

Boyd simply nods at Stiles with a “hey, bro,” but Isaac goes all out, slaps a palm to Stiles' before hauling the latter into a hug. “Fuckin’ legend!” Isaac tacks on for good measure, face red with amusement.

Derek can only scowl at his beta in reprimand, especially since a shaky huff of laughter falls past Stiles' lips at the comment. Even Derek can tell Isaac’s being a bit mockingly conspiratorial.

“We were just about to play a bit of Nine Ball,” Derek transitions, squeezes at Stiles' waist for his attention, “Would you like to join, _Słoneczko_?”

Soft eyes sparkling, Stiles declines, “Oh, no. I just stopped by to show you what I got us.” And without further ado Stiles is stepping up to the pool table, carefully hauling what looks like a bulky satchel on top of it. “His name is Yoda, and I just couldn’t resist,” the boy gushes as he unzips a side of the bag, reaches inside to curl a – _cat_? – to his chest.

Derek’s at a loss for words. Stiles looks so young with pleading eyes and hunched shoulders, a fat, wrinkled, grey feline on the dais of his arms.

“What the fuck is _that_?” Isaac is first to scoff, tone nasty in its surprise.

Prepared to bite back at Isaac, Derek’s only slightly caught off guard when Stiles resiliently finds his floor, scathes out, “He’s a Minskin, and I got him from a shelter I’ve worked with.”

“Yoda?” Boyd cuts in with fascination, a laugh, “Certainly suits the little guy.”

Stiles' shoulders loosen as he sets the cat down on the green felt, watches it stretch on stubby limbs with a tentative smile playing on his lips.

Needing the discomfort to disappear completely, Derek sidles back up to the younger boy and offers cautious fingers for the cat to rub up against. The hairless texture is a bit off-putting at first, what with Derek being so used to fluffy Ash, but Yoda is still soft.

Being a wolf and all, cats don’t generally like Derek. But this one has no problem, eyes his suspiciously but then buts against his hand gently.

“What’s the collar say?” Boyd intones, amusedly entertained by the situation. Probably because he’d never expect his Alpha to cosy up to a cat willingly.

“Oh, yes!” Stiles perks back up, stunning Derek slightly as he pivots to land his hands on Derek’s stomach, zero to one hundred with tilted brows and mouth sweetly puckered. “I’ve got us all an _adorable_ matching set of apparel,” he informs, scoops up the drowsy cat to cocoon it between their chests, twists the collar a bit to read a bedazzled ‘ _Baby Stilinski-Hale_ ’.

Derek’s eyebrows shoot up on their own volition, and he can only hope Stiles doesn’t read it so negatively.

The younger boy rushes, “Don’t worry, darling. I’ve got one for Ash as well,” and then he’s laying Yoda back on the pool table, reaching for the hem of his hoodie to pull it off.

Derek instinctively holds the end of Stiles' white t-shirt down so it doesn’t ruck up, and at first there’s nothing but fresh cotton, but then Stiles makes a grand gesture of puffing out his chest and pointing over his left pec where ‘ _Stilinski-Hale_ ’ is stitched like an insignia.

His skull begs to drop a heavying jaw in astonishment before Stiles is _squee_ ing, not even paying attention to the older man in order to turn a one-eighty and show off the back of his shirt. It sports ‘ _Derek’s Man_ ’ in rather large font, a headshot of Stiles and then of himself sandwiched between the words.

A moment passes. “Where did you get that picture of me?” Derek asks, tone low.

Stiles spins back around with the grace of a fucking ballerina, loops his arms around Derek’s neck, scrunches up his nose as if he thinks Derek is trying to be cute, “Online, silly.” He plants a peck over Derek’s slackened moue before, “I want you to try yours on, Der.”

And Derek doesn’t think he’d have the wherewithal to object even if he weren’t so blown away by Stiles' latest stunt. As it is, Stiles begins unbuttoning Derek’s dress shirt from the bottom up.

Not able to ruminate efficiently on the implications behind Stiles' presence and double identities, Derek lets his eyelids flutter closed for a few seconds, opens them back up with a long exhale that draws the boy’s gaze to his. It’s intimate in such an unassuming way, especially what with the same eyes having been locked together all of yesterday morning, lazy kisses and wandering hands, and Derek can only stare as Stiles' chin drops bashfully, fingers fumbling on the third to top button on Derek’s shirt.

A harsh cackle tunes Derek back into Boyd and Isaac’s conversation, Isaac’s eyes wide as he exclaims, “He’s bladdered!”

Derek scrutinizes the cat, witnesses it wobble on its wide stance, is curious himself but not rash enough to yell about it.

“He’s got Feline Cerebellar Hypoplasia, _Isaac_ ,” Stiles grits out, tenses up. “He can’t help it. And if any of you have anything else bitchy to say about the cat,” he cuts eyes to Isaac, Boyd, and back up to Derek, “then you can fuck right off.”

And _woah_ – Derek automatically affects affronted, brows heavy as he lands a heavy smack to Stiles' hip, but Stiles doesn’t sweeten up as usual and instead glares unforgivingly at Derek.

Oblivious to the stand-off, Isaac merely throws his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, man. Wasn’t looking to be rude; he’s cool.”

Derek’s just about to analyze Stiles' reaction, is hoping the harsh line of his mouth will smooth out, but then Boyd’s cutting in: “Is he about to be sick?”

Stiles stumbles out of Derek’s embrace in time to helplessly watch Yoda upchuck near a corner pocket, frets over the cat with a droopy brow and easy hands down its spine.

“Boys?” Derek draws Isaac and Boyd’s attention, tone autocratic so that it isn’t pissed, “Could you give us a moment?”

Wordlessly the two exit, Derek following behind but ducking into the restroom to wet a wad of paper towels and grab Febreze. Upon his return Stiles is cradling Yoda, cooing lowly at him, so Derek maneuvers around the two to clean up the mess, which is thankfully dry and of sparse proportion.

Derek lets the silence exist for a beat after spraying the room with _Meadows & Rain_, hopes Stiles will be less on the defense now that their unfamiliar company is elsewhere. “Is he alright?” he tries a muted voice.

“He gets extra wobbly when he’s excited or uncomfortable,” the boy offers, tone matter-of-fact with carefully concealed expression.

Without response Derek sidles up in front of Stiles, watches the cat as well. “Sounds like you,” he can’t help but joke, fingers dragging over Yoda’s fuzzy paws, “A bit like socks, yeah?”

Stiles glances up with a crooked grin, but the set of his eyes is unsure. “He’s really sweet, Der. Great with other animals and potty-trained.”

It’s as if Stiles is trying to preach a sell, but Derek doesn’t need it. Knuckles brush against the younger’s cheek, Derek finding warmth in the Stiles he first met, the one that’s only around half the time. “Alright,” is near a whisper, horrifyingly fond.

A genuine smile takes over Stiles' countenance, relief evident as Yoda purrs into Derek’s caress. “He likes you.”

“Yeah?” Derek queries, thumb tracing the outline of a disproportionately large ear, left palm finding its way over Stiles' waist. “The boys didn’t mean anything by their comments, by the way.”

Stiles shuffles closer, presses the left of the cat’s ribcage to Derek’s bare chest. “He’s used to it, been at the shelter for a few years now, fostered by most of the workers because no one wants to let him go.”

Derek thinks he knows what Stiles needs to hear, offers it wholeheartedly: “I’d love to take care of him, sweetheart.”

It’s almost imperceptible the quiet that presumes bated breath, but it’s there, and Derek’s tempted to question the boy before him on what he wants to hear, but Stiles only leans forward to press feathery lips to the hollow of Derek’s throat – the place Derek knows sports a purpled love bite.

In an instant Stiles is standing tall again, grin wide and inauthentic in that it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Sweet! Also, he’ll need weekly baths, and you’ll have to purchase a baby gate so he doesn’t try to wander up or down the stairs. And I don’t want you barking at him or chasing him up trees!”

That god-awful pitch is back in Stiles' tone, and Derek wants to grip the boy and shake him down in interrogation to find out what the fuck the change of demeanor is useful for. But in the back of his mind he remembers that if he wants the Dilaurentis account then it’ll be best not to irk Stiles. And maybe it’s better after all for Stiles to turn out insane – whether it be purposeful or organic. At least that way it would be easier for Derek to end a relationship he’s incapable of cultivating.

“Now hurry up, sourwolf,” Stiles urges, “I want to see you in the shirt.”

——

It’s a few hours later, and Derek’s ready to call it a day. Laura is meeting with Pearson and Blake just across the way, and Derek wants more than anything to be able to win her completely over to his side of the bargain, but he’s made no developments to his pitch campaign since Boyd and Isaac decided to tackle their own projects instead of supervising Derek flailing through his own.

And Derek can admit he’s mostly been useless because Stiles left him completely void of energy and half-mad. And not in a sexy way – not how Derek felt all through Saturday evening and Sunday morning, breathless, belly-up, and blissed out.

No, this time Stiles was all over the place in senseless commentary and outlandish plans for the future, and he made sure to drag Derek along through the mostly one-sided preaching. And it’s not like Derek doesn’t want to settle down and start a family eventually – hell, maybe even with Stiles – but they’ve known each other less than a week, and just because Derek’s wolf is dopey on Stiles’ scent doesn’t mean his human mind can’t have rational choice in who he spends the rest of his life with. And his human mind is saying something is off with Stiles.

Derek inadvertently begins creating an organized chart in his head, categorizing moments from when they first met till now that had himself feeling as if something were off. The first time they met was nice, but the second date at the baseball game was quite infuriating in the way he was treated. Watching that movie with Stiles was entertaining at first, but then the boy went a bit overboard in pissing off the guy behind them. And Derek had thought their date Saturday night couldn’t have gone any better, been any more rewarding, but then when he saw his second floor redecorated –

“ _Fuck_ ,” he groans, lets his head fall flat on his desk. He’s going to rupture a blood vessel if he tries to delve into the intricacies of their encounters.

His psyche doesn’t seem to care, though, because it lets the thoughts flow, a stone resting heavy in the pit of his stomach, crushing his self-worth.

Derek’s vaguely working to sort out whether Stiles is loony by nature or chaotic on purpose when Yoda stumbles out from his carrier, leans against Derek’s arm and purrs. At least Yoda’s been docile, asleep for the good majority of the afternoon with no more slip-ups.

The blinged out collar scratches at Derek’s hand, so he takes some time to appreciate the aesthetic – garnet fabric and diamond studs like sparkling wine. Or, no – there’s a phrase Stiles used to describe the jewels, but –

Derek’s zipping Yoda back up into his carrier and hustling out of his office in an instant, pulse heightened from the surge of excitement that comes from his revelation, because this could very well be _it_.

A moment is stolen to compose himself before Derek knocks on the conference room door twice, opens it to search out Laura. As soon as they meet eyes, Derek proclaims: “Frost yourself.”

“ _Pardon_?” Laura shakes her head in confusion just as Blake voices, “We’re in the middle of a meeting, Hale.”

Preferring to ignore the woman with slits for eyes who’s waving a laminated folder around, Derek nods to his boss and reinforces, “Frost Yourself. The slogan for my campaign.”

It’s a beat that’s filled with petty scoffing later, of Derek regretting not going over his game plan before Laura hitches a smile. “Continue.”


	7. Day Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is later than usual and not as well-edited. oops!

| _Tuesday_ |

Stiles is standing just outside Derek’s front entrance trying to compose himself. It seems Derek’s phone is hooked up to the surround sound, and right now his voicemail is rolling itself. The pet names have reached a new low: “ _I’ve got a surprise for us that you’ll just adore, babycakes!_ ”

With a harsh bite to his lip to ward off obnoxious snickers, Stiles raps on the door and sings out, “It’s me!”

In seconds there’s music playing instead of voice messages, and the front door swings open, Derek a bit frazzled with a harsh smile on his face that rather resembles a threatened pup more than genuine merriment.

Instead of sympathy and guilt, Stiles enables relief to take root in his sternum: his tactics are finally getting to Derek, so this mess should all be over and done with soon.

Stiles darts forward to land a peck to a slack mouth before stepping into the foyer. “Was your phone on silent, Der? I was trying to get ahold of you.”

There’s a stumble that may or may not be the start to a response, but then Ash scuttles into view, and Stiles drops into a crouch to appease the animated pup. “Where’s Yoda?” Stiles queries, actual intent behind a craning neck and scrunched brow.

“Uh,” Derek begins, “He’s a bit wary of the new environment, I think. Likes to lay in his carrier.”

It’s a frown that pulls Stiles to his feet, Ash slightly less deprived. “Have you tried cuddling him, showing him around?”

Derek’s uncertainty is engraved in his features, exudes from his demeanor in tight shoulders tilted away from Stiles. As if he’s ready to escape.

“Where is he?” Stiles demands, but he’s already sweeping his eyes throughout the center of Derek’s home – living area and kitchen. He’d be lying if he claimed that he tried not to be mad.

Yoda’s luxury tote is propped beside the kitchen island, blends in nicely with dark, wooden structure and metallic surfaces, and Stiles is pleased upon marching to the location to find Yoda sleeping soundly. A cute, black and white double dish is filled to the brim with Yoda’s favored cat food on the left, water on the right, but it looks untouched for the most part.

“Has he not been eating, Derek?” Stiles' question wobbles past the bite of his lip, is accompanied by a concave brow.

Again, Derek is reluctant to answer. Feet two-step his weight that seems to be taking a toll on his shoulders as well.

Stiles finds it easy to anger at Derek’s avoidance, his lack of care to participate in discussion. “If you didn’t want Yoda you should have told me, Derek!” he snaps, words quick and sharp off of his tongue.

The man finally looks up at that, fists tightening and jaw stiff. “It’s not that, just…”

Stiles' heart palpitates at the wording. It’s the start of a thousand generic breakup lines, and he has to hide his dry gulp. He consciously knows that this is what he needs, but his body hasn’t received the memo, and he can’t help but wonder if his crossed arms have stopped appearing as defiant and instead just look like a pitiful shield.

A few deep inhales, closed eyed, pinched brow. “I’m sorry, Stiles,” Derek heaves a sigh, steps closer as his arms cross, “I _do_ want to take care of him, but apparently I don’t know how to live up to your demands.”

Reassessing the situation, he focuses on the fact that Derek didn’t break up with him and – in fact – suggested he’d like to continue developing the relationship further, rather. At this point he’s wondering who’s crazier for not ending it.

And he is in no way, shape, or form relieved that Derek isn’t breaking up with him. No siree.

Instead of sassing back, Stiles lets his amusement at having irritated Derek shine through in a smile. Time for condescending talk: “Oh, Derry, all you had to do was tell me that you don’t know what you’re doing! I’d love to go through everything you need to do! There’s no need for an attitude, though.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek reiterates, tone suppressed. “Could you please reacquaint Yoda and me? I think he might eat if he’s comfortable with me.” There’s a forced chuckle out of an awkwardly quirked smile.

“We better not fuss with him right now. He hates being woken up,” Stiles sighs out, dragging his eyes to the man yards away.

And he can’t help but wonder at the gulf that’s been able to wear itself between them in such short a time span, at the bridge they’ve built with every sweet kiss and genuine grin. He’s aware that in the end one will have to overthrow the other, and for his own sake he can’t be the one to drown.

“Would you like to show me what you brought in the meantime?” Derek concedes, steps onto the rickety bridge his side of the pond.

Stiles' eyes trace back to the foyer where his worn backpack sits, and he had originally planned to go about this with giggly gusto, but now he’s just tired. “I had spare time at work, so I composited our faces together to create our future love children.” Cut and dry actually packs more punch.

Derek’s dumbfounded expression serves to lighten Stiles' spirit as to where he has to bite his lip from laughing on his way to scoop up his bag. He avoids Derek’s gaze all the way back to the kitchen bar, hauling his commodities onto the cool counter.

“You want to see it, yes?” He finally prompts when it becomes apparent Derek’s taken a vow of silence for the evening, cranes his neck to raise his brows at the man who has shifted his way just behind Stiles' shoulder.

“I – yes?” Derek responds, right hand steadying himself on the edge of the bar.

“If you don’t want to see our future then just tell me,” Stiles bites, eye roll involuntary as he huffs.

Derek lets his bar stool scrape the floor as he pulls it behind Stiles', takes his sweet time to rest his left hand on the younger’s waist before gentling a kiss to Stiles' temple. He seems to hesitate there a second, breathing in and then out. “I guess I do. But how –?”

“Oh! By the way,” Stiles simpers as he leans back into Derek’s chest, “I’ve decided we’ll remain abstinent until our wedding night. Or maybe just until the engagement, but that all depends on how you ask and the ring, so don’t hold your breath.”

Hold his breath Derek does if his stiffening posture is anything to go by, and Stiles lets his eyes widen with mirth at his own improv before diving into the family album. “As you can see here, sourwolf,” Stiles taps at the cover over embossed gold, “It’s titled ‘ _Into The Future_ ’. Bisque Thin font because it’s funky. Black, white, and gold because it contrasts nicely.”

A chin digs into Stiles' shoulder, and he almost leans his temple against Derek’s cheek before he remembers that he’s showing the man a fucking photo-shopped compilation of their ‘future’ and that he might get sucker-punched if he makes the wrong move.

A slight clearing of the throat. “Moving on,” he announces, opens the book to the first page, “’ _The Engagement_.’ Take note if you want this ass within the next six months, which is your time limit for proposing, by the way.” Stiles clenches his teeth so as not to burst out laughing at his own absurdity, tops Derek’s left hand with his own and laces their fingers to rest on his thigh. “I pulled a few different generic proposal samples because I don’t know which you’ll go with,” he points to a couple on the Eiffel Tower, at a restaurant, with family, “But I don’t want anything cliché or juvenile as if you’re asking me to prom, of course. And, as you can see, I’ve printed out quite a bit of ring samples. I like black bands, and maybe some jewels. I usually go for chunky accessories, but I can make an exception for something as important as an engagement.”

He’s rambling now, so he takes a moment to breathe, dreads looking at a stoic Derek (on principle, _not_ because he cares how Derek reacts to the mention of monogamy). But he can’t put it off, so he twists to the right and squeezes their fingers to gaze up at him.

“You’re very imaginative, _Słoneczko_ ,” the older hums out, eyes like brittle toffee, likely resigned to ride out this rodeo sans complaint lest it take longer.

“Yes, well,” Stiles turns back around, flips the page to ‘ _The Wedding_ ’ to reveal different venues and elegant tuxedos. Flowers, evergreen plants, wedding arch.

‘ _The Honeymoon_ ’ is followed by ‘ _First Home_ ’ and then ‘ _First Child_ ,’ which is where Derek pipes in, slightly less perturbed, to make way for disgruntled curiosity: “Where did you find my baby pictures?”

“Called your mom and got chatting,” Stiles informs as nonchalantly as possible. “Now this –“

“How’d you get her number?” Derek leans back, effectively allowing Stiles to nearly lose his balance as well as his steady heart rate.

“ _Derek_ –“

“I’m sorry, babe,” he rushes out with solid palms to the back that steady Stiles.

Genuinely miffed, Stiles furrows his brow and ripostes, “I looked her up in the fucking phone book, Derek,” arms crossing. “Do you have a problem with public services?”

Derek sits back down gingerly, turns Stiles' stool until they’re facing each other without having to break their spines. A moment of silence. “I just keep fucking up tonight,” he sighs, eyes closed as he fingers Stiles' chin and presses plush lips to the younger’s forehead. Pulling back after Stiles exhales, Derek continues, “I was just confused is all. Wasn’t expecting you to contact my mother.”

“Well get used to it, Derek, because she and I adore one another,” the boy’s nose turns up righteously.

“Oh, is that so?” Derek leans back and flattens his hands to Stiles' thighs, sports rounded eye of dread.

Despite everything Stiles has hit him with throughout the night, Derek might just gain the upper hand if his too-familiar palms keep heating Stiles up just where he loves to be caressed. (And he kind of regrets having revealed himself so intimately to the man because ever since it’s as if there’s a magnetism drawing him to Derek with close proximity setting his nerves alight, dancing stomach and blushing skin. Vulnerability is not affordable.)

“Get your dirty paws off me, Derek,” Stiles snips, voice as firm as can be, “I was serious about not making love, and you’re instigating.”

Derek merely shifts over a smirk, fingers crawling to Stiles' hips as he stands tall between thighs and crowds the younger boy against the bar’s edge. He curves to trace lips against the shell of Stiles' ear. “I don’t believe that’s what you want, _Słoneczko_. What happened to your prowess, hmm?”

 _Fuck_. Of course the proposal is a bit too absurd considering how Stiles has initiated intimacy from the start, with how he responded to Derek the other night, especially. Stiles doesn’t answer, though, continues to act like a statue even as his lover begins nuzzling at his neck.

“What’s going on in that head of yours, baby?” Derek hushes, pulls back slightly. “If you really don’t want to fool around then we’ll talk about it, alright?”

The younger doesn’t answer, settles his hands on Derek’s waist and accentuates his neck. Because it’s hard to stay in character with sweet lips offering themselves to his throat, whispers of Derek besieging the opportunity to take care of his boy, strong legs holding Stiles' thighs apart –

Soft background music abruptly cuts off as shrill ringing blares from the surround-sound system, which jolts Stiles into rational consciousness: “Answer your phone, you brute,” he hassles, hands lightly pushing against Derek’s chest.

Stiles realizes how much he needs the smell of fresh (okay, maybe not in the strictest sense of the word), outside air when Derek’s walking away from him and a fragrant citrus still saturates his senses. He’s had enough of back and forth with Derek, with not being able to keep a sound mind around the man. And Derek’s commitment to the ‘relationship’ is no longer intriguing but instead slightly worrying considering the fact that – 

Unless he _wants_ an exchange of nuptials. Which, on the one hand, is ludicrous because they’ve known each other not yet a week. Then again, Derek _does_ hold a good handful of years Stiles’ senior, has a stable income, and is nearly past the prime age for settling down. And he’s an Alpha werewolf that likely craves growing a pack.

Derailing that train of thought is for Stiles' fracturing sanity.

“No, mom,” Derek mumbles into his phone, arms against his chest as he angles away from Stiles.

The wine shelf calls out to Stiles, but he shuts off his brain to stumble from his perch and pull Yoda out of his slumber, the poor thing mewling as he stretches. And thus Stiles takes it upon himself to walk the cat around Derek’s flat, show him his food and litter box that’s in the bathroom off the foyer.

On his way back from the washroom, Stiles can’t help but let his gaze linger on Derek. Plump lips seem fixated in a gentle smile, lashes fluttering as the man listens to whatever his mother has to say.

“Er – yes?” Derek’s thick brows pull together for a pause before he answers again, “Right here. Just a second.” And then Derek’s eyes settle on Stiles in query, legs carrying him to the younger.

Even as friendly as Talia Hale is, Stiles chokes on a hitch in his breathing, can’t help his eyes widening just so.

But Derek’s demeanor isn’t any braver, jaw low and eyes finding it hard to lock with Stiles' as he silently offers up his phone and gestures toward Yoda with his left hand, and, _oh_.

“He likes you, Der; don’t worry,” Stiles tries to reassure Derek if only because the one thing more troubling than his own lack of situational dominance is when Derek isn’t holding the weight either.

As soon as they’ve swapped treasures Stiles brings the call to his ear. “Mrs. Hale?”

“ _Oh, hush, sweetheart – you know it’s ‘Talia’_ ,” a mezzo-soprano coos across tinny service.

“Sorry,” Stiles slips into a depreciating laugh, airy, “Talia.”

“ _It’s fine – just means you’re polite. So, how did he like the album?_ ” she asks conspiratorially, doesn’t waste time with small talk.

“I think he found it interesting… to say the least,” Stiles weaves his response carefully, avoids the gaze he can feel burning his profile.

“ _I’d just love to see some of your own baby pictures,” she gushes, “You’re just the most handsome man._ ”

A ridiculous flush eats its way at his neck, and he hopes Derek doesn’t take note. “They’re awful,” another nervous chuckle escapes, eyes tracing his steps as Ash trots in front of him with a curious tilt of the head. “But thank you very much, anyway.”

Derek’s mom releases her own giggle before, “ _I hope I’m not embarrassing you, Stiles. You know, Derek’s just like that: trying for unbothered and brave as can be when really he’s always been such a shy boy._ ”

And – “Really?” Stiles stumbles over an inhale, unsureness leaving in the following exhale as his eyes search for Derek, who happens to be keeping a steady watch on him from the edge of the foyer, quizzical. “I think I actually see what you mean,” Stiles divulges, mental images of a less-than-all-together Derek flashing into account. Rare, only revealing itself to the sharpest eye.

“ _Oh, yes_ ,” Talia sighs, seems to shuffle around at her end of the line, “ _But those are stories for another time. How is the kitten taking to Derek’s flat?_ ”

“We’re actually in the process of assimilating him,” Stiles informs easily, relieved to be able to contribute something of worth to the conversation. “But I think he’ll like it plenty.”

“ _I’d just love to see pictures of Yoda too!_ ” she swoons, “ _Oh, look at me getting so excited. I better let you go before I pack my bags for Manhattan._ ”

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” Stiles insists, countenance showcasing a wrinkled forehead no doubt as he bolsters her stake in the conversation, “I’d actually love to show him off.”

“ _Don’t worry about it, dear; I’ll just bother Derek about it later. But for now I really should get going on dinner_ ,” she finalizes.

“Alright. It was great chatting with you, Talia,” a hand rubs at the back of his neck, feet pivoting.

“ _You’re such a pleasant boy, Stiles. Call me anytime._ ”

“Yeah,” comes out soft and breathless, a smile lifting his cheeks sluggishly. “Bye.”

It takes a moment after Mrs. Hale clicks off for Stiles to lower the phone, all the while trying to tame the fond swelling in his chest so that the guilt that eventually replaces it won’t be too burdensome. It’s one thing to wile a man that just won’t let go. It’s another to ploy an unassuming mother.

“You okay, _Słoneczko_?” Derek soothes after having made his way across the room to Stiles.

The younger boy focuses his vision away from the skyline, allows himself to lean into the palm against his lower back to scratch at Yoda from where he’s purring in the cradle of Derek’s arms. “Yeah,” is a mumble.

Fuzzy brows assume their default scrunched position, humorous and infuriating and endearing as always. “Are you sure? Did my mom say something?”

Stiles can’t help but incline toward the softness in Derek’s tone that’s noticeable when he mentions her, finds it a bit soothing. “No, Der, It’s nothing,” he fibs with a palm over the man’s sternum.

“Alright, well, are you hungry? I’ve got salad that I shouldn’t waste, and we could put a movie on,” soft eyes sketch from the kitchen to the couch as his thoughts pop up.

And Stiles really cannot grasp why the fuck the man is so accommodating after all he’s been put through, can only hope that his other surprise of the night sets Derek’s rationale into process. “Actually, I’ve got tickets for tonight.”

“Tickets?” Derek’s ears practically perk up, tail begging to thump the floor from just the word ‘walk.’

“You won’t even believe, baby.”


	8. Day Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm updating early because I'll be busy tonight, but my editing was a bit rushed once again. Feel free to point out grammar, spacing, etc. mistakes!

| _Wednesday_ |

“Stilinski!”

“Nnnng,” Stiles groans, squeezing his eyes shut tighter and shielding out office gossip with his folded arms tucked against his ears, forehead resting in the crook of his elbow.

“I went ahead and grabbed you a coffee anyway. Cream and sugar,” Scott ignores Stiles' sour mood and plops onto a cluttered table to lean against Stiles' cubicle partition.

A bittersweet aroma finds its way to Stiles' nose, and he supposes that since sleep isn’t an option he might as well wake up enough to get through the rest of the day grog-free. It’s all bright light and tapping shoes, a sensory overload as soon as he lifts his head. And he thinks to change his mind about actively participating in society, but he sips at his warm beverage instead, nearly moans as the pungent taste flows over his tongue – sweet enough to swallow, and is that – tang?

“Is this a fucking joke, Scott?” Stiles growls. His eyes are still squinting against midday rays, and he’s sure his hair is a mess. “How the fuck did you manage to get orange in this anyway?”

“Compliment of the shop, bro,” answers Scott, seemingly oblivious, but Stiles notes that tell-tale eye crinkle that means he’s close to laughing!

The flavor isn’t bad, but the principle of the matter is that Scott is pushing for information on Derek, and Stiles doesn’t want to think about the man right now. Stiles is as bitter as his coffee, and he doesn’t care. So he blindly reaches to his left until his fingers brush against the sourwolf plush, pulls it in front of him to rest on. And astutely ignores his so-called best friend.

Not even a minute passes. “So are you ready to talk about it?”

Care is taken to breathe in through the nose, hold, and breath out through the mouth. After a few moments, Stiles resigns himself to getting it all off his chest. “We might as well wait until Alli’s back.”

He only gets ten more minutes of relative peace before Allison makes her reappearance from a lunch date with someone or other, regret crawling up Stiles' throat because he can’t decide if he’d rather go back on his word and keep mum.

“Alright, S,” Allison huffs as she rolls her chair into the cubicle noisily, “even I’ll admit I _have_ to know what’s got you so bothered.”

A quick drawl of the only liquid encouragement he’s got, fingers twisting gel-free locks. Finally, Stiles turns his head to angle toward his confidants, rests the burden of his heavy thoughts with his elbows digging into his slack-clad knees. As if he’s about to inform them that there’s been a grave accident. And, well –

“He fucking _loved_ it,” is a rasped whisper, sinister almost.

Scott quirks a brow, politely wards off a shit-eating grin even though the dimple carving itself into his cheek is telling enough.

“Sorry?” Allison lilts out a genuine question, legs crossing at the knee as she mimics Stiles' forward lean.

“Erica got these tickets, right?” Stiles starts, fingers linking to give him somewhere to focus. “I was gunna hand them off to Jasmine from editing,” he nods to Allison, who doesn’t bother to play as if she’s any warmer to the punchline. Okay, maybe he’s just stalling.

“So I go to Derek’s and throw a fit about Yoda, make a production of that damned _Future_ album, but even _that_ didn’t really get to the guy. He was a bit uncomfortable, yeah,” Stiles glances to his audience, “and shocked definitely, but he hasn’t called it quits yet, so you can see how far I’ve gotten.”

Allison is frowning now, arms crossed. “Where do the tickets come in? What were they for?”

All the right questions. “Right,” Stiles nods, “Well I never did give them to Jasmine. Kind of forgot about them until my mom called the other day.” He almost loses his train of thought when he remembers his mom is scheduled to go in for a screening this week. Fifteen years clear, but no one can ever know what’s to come.

“Anyway, I get Derek all hyped of because of ‘the tickets,’” he air quotes, waggles his eyebrows for effect, “making it seem as if I’m taking him to another Yanks game, and then I ended up dragging him to a Camila Cabello concert.”

A silent ‘O’ warps Allison’s mouth, eyes wide as well. Scott sinks down lower against the cubicle partition with bright eyes to press the back of his hand against his mouth. So at least some people are amused.

“And, like,” Stiles drags his hand through his hair again, lips quirking in the contagious atmosphere, “he was confused when we walked into Madison Square Garden and I steered him left, but that’s it!”

Scott’s snorting by now, and Allison’s cheeks have scrunched up to hide her eyes, and Stiles rides the momentum with his own eyes crazed from restless sleep: “He looked like a lost, grumpy puppy basically the whole time, but he wasn’t _mad_. In fact, he kept rubbing my back and holding my hand and trying to smile when I sang!”

“If he can manage to listen to your singing then he’s gone off the deep end, bro,” Scott shakes his head in wonderment.

Rolling his eyes, Stiles screeches, “This is serious business, guys! If he holds in his anger any longer he’ll end up exploding!”

Allison does her little snort. “Maybe he actually can’t get enough of her music now.” 

“At least he’s got nice taste,” Scott teases along, a bubblegum grin careless with arms wide out to seek support, tempo of his drawl only slightly quicker with animation.

“It’s not even about the preference, because, yeah, she’s playing at the Garden for a reason,” Stiles insists, “It’s the fact that Derek didn’t even care he was missing the big game to see a concert I tricked him into. He even bought us shirts!”

The last part was yelled loudly even for Stiles’ record, and they’re all quiet for a moment to avoid being glared at. Afterward, the trio takes a moment to exhaust the situation of its hilarity, which Stiles didn’t know he needed. Comradery among friends with eyes alive.

Honestly, though, Stiles will never see Derek Hale in the same light. Sourwolf who? Doesn’t matter – meet Mr. Sunshine.

Eventually, Allison wonders, “How did you end up with one of New York’s most eligible bachelors?” Her chin rests on curled fingers, and Stiles doesn’t have an answer.

He shakes his head slowly, gaze on his shiny Oxfords that are the only dress shoes he owns. “I have no clue, Alli.”

When Stiles finally looks up it’s to witness sly looks between Allison and Scott, the former nodding before locking eyes with Stiles. “I still stand that you should reconsider writing the article.”

His sigh is hefty with defeat. “I already told you, Alli: I’ve put too much into this to just give up.”

“Stiles,” she softens condescendingly, as if she’s clearing up a child’s misunderstanding, “You can write about a breakup without actually ending it with Derek. You _like_ him, and he’s a great guy, right?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Stiles is quick to draw: “I’ve done a lot of embarrassing shit that’s fucked up our thing already. I don’t want to build a relationship on lies.” There’s a wince because the statement is so cliché, but there’s a truth behind it at least.

There’s relative silence for a minute as Ben and – Bianca? – walk past, chatting away easily.

“He likes you enough to stick around. That should tell you he’s capable of handling rough patches in the long run,” Scott pipes up.

“That’s another thing: Would I really want to be with someone so durable? I know the shit I’ve done bothers him, but he doesn’t say anything about it, so there’s no real communication.”

“He might think you’ll go ape-shit on him if he tells you something you won’t like,” Scott snorts.

Allison chuckles as well before, “Here’s this: if Derek doesn’t break up with you by day ten then you can fabricate the article’s finale, come clean to Derek, and see how it goes from there.”

And, well, the more often Allison proposes such a plan the better an option it seems to be. But at the same time –

Stiles' phone vibrates on the desk, and he doesn’t want to register the way his heart rate accelerates over the fact that it’s likely Derek.

> **Derek Hale:**  
>  Happy One Week, Słoneczko. I want to take you somewhere nice this weekend. 

  
A stupid grin tugs onto his face, and this isn’t good. It’s gone on way too long, and Stiles _does not want to cultivate a relationship_.

So even though Scott can hear his heartbeat and Allison can at least assess his pleased body language, Stiles puts that all behind him to steele his features, tired as ever with his energy-draining change of mood. “It ends tonight.”

**

Maybe Derek’s a little drunk. Wolfsbane brew really fucks him up, but he’s aware of it, at least. And it makes Erica and Boyd’s antics ten times funnier, so who cares if he’s losing a round of Hold ‘Em just because he can’t stop chuckling?

“I say _’fuck it’_ to this game,” Erica exclaims, loud and brazen in the most endearing way, arms as wide as her wicked grin.

“Do you?” Boyd chortles his way into a question, egging Erica on with glazed eyes and a thick tint to his speech.

“Oh, fuck off,” Jackson rebukes. It’s brash, but Derek’s used to it. Jackson’s asshole shines through with enough liquor is all. Luckily, it takes quite a lot to actually get him going, his large frame holding it easily.

Erica ignores Jackson, answers Boyd just to hear her own voice: “I do, Boyd,” a smirk.

Everyone else around the table carries on the game without input, Mason tossing a few chips into the betting pool, Liam burning a hole through his cards with a calculating gaze, Isaac watching everyone else, bemused.

“You’re just saying that because you’ve gotten shitty hands,” Derek hiccups a laugh, cheeks scrunching his eyes up to where Erica’s a blur of white t-shirt and blue denim.

“Derek, Derek, Derek,” the girl titters out, throws an arm around Derek’s shoulder that the latter leans into, “Right you are. I‘m so glad we’ve been able to learn each other so well.”

Derek laughs into the hearty squeeze to his shoulder, throws his right arm around Erica’s waist and tucks into her neck to reciprocate the sentiment. But – “Hey!” he jerks back, betrayal dripping from his features, “That’s cheating!”

The beta merely widens her impish grin as Derek makes a show of hiding his splayed cards to his chest, neither confirming nor denying her accusations of hugging Derek to steal a glimpse of his hand. “Does it really matter, D? We’re both losing.”

Conveniently, it’s Derek’s move, so he folds to reveal only a pair of twos before exclaiming, “I’m winning tonight either way. This is a celebration, after all.” It’s a triumphant beam that Derek owns.

“Here, here,” Boyd throws a fist in the air, “Made quite a bit of improvement on that awful pitch.”

Isaac guffaws at that, shoulders quaking. “Can’t believe your boy pulled through for us!”

And – oh, yeah. Stiles. Partial reasoning as to why Derek’s been more than just a social drinker for the night. Not wanting to reschedule Pack Night and needing a breather from Stiles' clinginess anyway, Derek sent Stiles a text about treating him at the end of the week. And Derek really does just want a bit of a lax night to soak in the fact that Laura approved his pitch that he’s damn proud of now, to celebrate with his buddies that helped make it happen.

But Stiles never replied, and that worries Derek. Because if the boy’s done with him then Derek will never be able to pitch to the Dilaurentis no matter how much work’s been put into the project. (There’s also a large part of his wolf that will lament the intoxicating scent of the boy, and a smaller but still too-big part of his human that will miss his sweet eyes and bright laugh.)

“What are you talking about?” Mason aims for enlightenment.

Isaac about falls out of his seat, cackling, and Boyd straightens his spine to throw back his shoulders. “Oh, listen to this…”

Tuning it out, Derek thinks that maybe he shouldn’t go around shouting about his slightly unprofessional bets, but these are his betas. And neither Isaac nor Boyd know anything incriminating, anyway, just what they’ve witnessed and heard from Derek’s grumblings and praises.

Maybe at one point Derek would have stood up for Stiles, eccentric as he may be. But Derek’s had this sinking suspicion brewing for a while that he’s the butt of his date’s – _boyfriend_ ’s, soon-to-be fiancé’s, according to the man himself – own personal joke, and the wolfsbane alcohol charging in his system is doing little to encourage rationale, so –

“I need a smoke,” Derek declares, rises from his dining table as the rest of the guys entertain themselves off of his own misfortune. He won’t be missed too much.

**

Stiles is once again stood outside of Derek’s penthouse, admiring the stained oak of the doorway, dark etches of a maze. The holiday wreath is holding up well, he notes.

He’s building up the courage to make his grand entrance, jangling the lone key in his right hand that he talked the landlord into creating for him. It’s amazing, truly, and a bit saddening as well what an amatory bat of the lash can get one from so-called professional adults.

And it’s a bit daunting setting out to destroy a relationship once and for all, but Stiles likes to consider it consolation the fact that by barging his way into Derek’s flat he’ll at least be letting the man know that security should be bulked up on.

With _now or never_ in mind, Stiles jabs his shiny key into the deadbolt and twists, pushes the heavy door open to submerge himself in a round of raucous laughter, his suspicions confirmed that, yes, on Monday Derek’s colleagues did try to subtly remind Derek of Wednesday night plans without letting Stiles in on them.

(‘Simple-minded’ is what he’d label Boyd and Isaac upon first impression if he were in the business of doing so. Alas, he is not.)

No indication of his presence becoming known reveals itself, so Stiles works up a deep inhale in order to call out when another figure rounds into the foyer, Stiles' joints locking up and the oxygen knocked out of his lungs.

From her curly hair to scuffed _Vans_ , Erica Reyes stands in all of her not-quite-five-foot-nine glory across from Stiles, their eyes mirroring shock.

“What the _fuck_?!” Stiles finally hisses after a moment of stuttered breath, jaw tensing and shoulders rounding, arms open as if he’s about to attack, which, well –

Erica throws a quick glance over her shoulder before surging forward to twist her fingers into Stiles' _Rolling Stones_ shirt, spinning them both around and into the damned coat closet on the right. And she somehow manages to flick on the light before shutting them into the cubby.

It’s actually a bit spacious, Stiles can’t help but note. Prioritizing his thoughts, he speaks again: “If you make a ‘closet’ joke I’ll chop your head off.” Aggressive, but better. “Derek’s already heard and smelled me by now –”

“He’s on the balcony. What are you doing here?” Erica gets straight to the point, slightly frazzled. The fact that she doesn’t indulge in a chance to tease means something’s up. If the fact that they’re hid in a closet right now didn’t hint enough already, that is.

“How long have you known Derek was the guy for the article?” Stiles asks the real question instead. No room for chit-chat in his direct tone.

Erica almost deflates at that, looks to the floor and clasps her hands to hide fidgets. “He started mentioning this guy he’s dating,” the girl nods to Stiles in indication, “’ _Stiles_ ’, and I wasn’t completely sure at first if it was actually _you_ , but then his asides about the guy’s antics got wild, so I put the pieces together.”

Another moment to consider. There’s something a bit _off_ about the explanation. Or maybe just something not quite there. But, then again, maybe it’s just the dingy lighting that’s leaving a rancid taste in Stiles' mouth. Either way, seconds are ticking, and there are coat hangers digging into Stiles' shoulder blade. “I’m guessing that Derek doesn’t know about the article if you’re having to keep our relationship a secret.”

A sneaky grin tugs up Erica’s mouth. “Hiding our relationship in the closet, huh?”

“Erica,” Stiles snips in admonishment, ducks his head to rub over his forehead and conceal a pressing grin.

“Right,” the other complies, “No, Derek doesn’t know. I have to keep my mouth shut when he goes on about you.”

Butterflies awaken in Stiles' stomach, but he’s not sure if they’ll turn into a stampede or not with his next question: “What all do you know?”

“Well, for starters,” Erica leans back with loose posture, apparently feeling as though there’s no longer a posed threat, “He kept raving about your mouth and ass.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Stiles' volume sinks along with his stomach, “He _told_ you about that?”

Erica’s features widen as she grows even more amused, “Wait, you’ve actually put out? I was lying about that part, but isn’t this just fantastic? Now, tell me: I’ve seen him without a chub, but –“

“ _Erica_!” Stiles hisses yet again, face flushing with both anger and embarrassment over the fact that Erica played him. “Cut it out, you absolute ass. I’m trying to be serious.”

“Fine,” the woman raises her palm in surrender, knowing when she’s crossed a line even if late to apologize. “He likes you, alright?” Erica focuses her eyes on Stiles', “But you’re throwing him off with your back and forth from relatively normal to slightly insane.” Tone pitching on the end note, Erica rising on her toes because she just has to add entertainment to her productions.

“What’s been fucking with him the most?” Stiles pops back. He can feel his heart rate picking up, a steady thud against his chest, and he can’t decipher if he’s excited about possible improvement or anxious about being disliked. (It’s only natural to feel a twinge of hurt when criticized, alright?)

“No, no, no,” Erica synchronizes her ejection with backing away until she’s plastered to a wall, heavy coats now obscuring her left half so that Stiles has to push them out of the way. “I’m not getting in this, Stiles. I’d like to be as far away as possible from this ticking time bomb.”

It’s not as if Stiles shouldn’t have expected as much. Still, he nods along with sloped shoulders, finger pads to his forehead in accession. After lagging seconds, “We don’t know each other.”

“Not at all,” is Erica’s response, standing at attention now that their impromptu meeting is coming to a close.

“Where’s Derek? And how do we get out of here without anyone seeing?”

Erica cranes her neck toward the door, nearly pressing her ear to the wall as if using sonar to determine locale. “Derek might still be outside, but the boys are finishing up their game. How about I go out first and you wait until Derek comes back in to come out?”

“Yeah,” Stiles nods along, wets his lips, “that’s fine.”

Eyebrows flick up with a flashing grin of “Happy Outing, bud,” and then Erica’s sneaking her way out of their hiding spot, darting back to the crowd.

Stiles isn’t even able to shake his head at Erica’s antics before the slide of a glass door can be heard, a few “ _Hale_!s” being shrilled nonsensically. It’s quite a bit less nerve-racking the notion of acting a fool with Derek alone than having to put on a show around a handful of strangers. But Erica is out there, at least, and she’s in on the joke, so maybe it could be fun.

That’s what Stiles clings to, psyches himself up with before tip-toeing out of the closet, opening and closing the front door, and calling out, “Sourwolf? I’m home!” all in one go. Master of stealth.

The atmosphere shifts abruptly. “Are _you_ ‘sourwolf’?” is snickered, and then, “Wait, does he know about – ?” A smack. “OW!” 

And all that before Stiles has even rounded past the foyer (where his _Happy Halloween!_ banner still hangs and into the open floorplan, even.

“ _Stiles_ ” is intoned as rudely as the younger’s ever heard Derek (which isn’t saying much, but) when he shows himself to the group of men gathered in Derek’s dining area.

He plasters a grin to his face upon locking eyes with Derek, strides forward since the man’s motor neurons seems stuck on maintaining a dumbstruck expression, drool likely seconds away from slipping out of his slack mouth. Even before Stiles is pressed to Derek he can smell rank alcohol and bitter smoke, and his raised arms easily fall heavily over Derek’s shoulders in confusion, expression likely conveying just as much.

Derek’s palms find Stiles' hips as if by second nature now, but neither break the silence for a beat.

“I was going to let you kiss me, but you know I’ve told you not to smoke,” Stiles scolds condescendingly. It’s a lie because Stiles didn’t even know the man smokes, and it’s hypocritical because Stiles himself does as well. And this is a horrible situation, because he hears Erica cough out a poorly disguised laugh and wants to cut eyes at her, but – “Smells awful, Derek.” He wrinkles his nose and leans backward for good measure.

Instead of an admonishing spank and sure demeanor, Derek almost shrinks under the weight of Stiles' presence, face heating slightly to angle his face away from his company. “What are you doing here?” is low and genuinely stunned.

Dying to play this line since he thought it up, Stiles chirps, “Oh, I tracked your phone with that Life360 app, and since it said you were home I decided to try out my new key!” It’s with an honest giggle that Stiles plays up his squealed excitement, knowing Erica will get a kick out of the new development.

Derek pulls completely away, hazy eyes and hands limp by his sides. “You _tracked my phone_?”

Yes. The app works exactly like that. “Yeah,” Stiles affects nonchalance, even shrugs his shoulders to trail his eyes around the flat, offhandedly put off that the animals are nowhere to be seen, “I installed the app on your phone yesterday, and your superintendent got me the key copy.”

It’s a statue-like Derek that Stiles eventually tilts away from, the man unreadable but obviously ill-pleased. Unfortunately, the only other place to lay his attention is on the handful of strangers centered around Derek’s dining room table, none of them even trying to act as if they’re minding themselves. “Are you going to introduce me to your little friends, pumpkin?”

At that Isaac shoots his hand in the air as if an elementary schooler. “Hey, Stiles!” There’s a glint in the boy’s eyes, and Stiles is beginning to wonder if Isaac’s always amused or just always intoxicated.

Stiles considers briefly the response of Derek’s other betas to himself, wonders if they would be baring teeth and sitting rigidly if Derek had grown angry instead of baffled by Stiles’ appearance.

Nevertheless, “Hey, man.” Stiles steps closer to their circle, avoiding Erica’s gaze so as to not blow his cover.

“Jackson, Mason, Liam, Erica,” Isaac rapid-fires names, “You’ll fuckin’ love this guy.”

Radio silence. Jackson scoffs in dissent, two of the other three avoiding eye contact warily and the last holding a thoughtful gaze. It’s fucking awkward, but at least the professional side of Stiles can appreciate the fact that his persona is formidable enough to put off so many grown men.

“So,” Stiles prompts, “Cards and Game Seven? That sounds like a fun night. Not as fun as if Derek had made plans to celebrate our Anniversary, but obviously you guys are cheaper entertainment.”

Before anyone can process Stiles’ insult, he changes the subject: “Hey, it’s Halloween Night! And nobody dressed up! Do you at least like my decorations?”

This time Jackson responds with, “Oh, we love them! It really adds culture to the space.” Mockery stains the kid’s tongue, and he’s grinning as if Stiles is too loony to even pick up on the tone.

Derek finally coming to, Stiles feels a firm hand above his butt, Derek positioning himself once again between Stiles and his guests. “Stiles…” is strained, the older man not quite meeting his eyes.

“Oh,” Stiles interrupts, “Don’t mind me, doll. I’ll just find myself something to eat and then watch the game.” Without further ado, he pats Derek’s chest and pivots toward the kitchen.

Being merely a few yards away, the kitchen isn’t much solace, unfortunately. But at least the bar and island serve as a barrier for Stiles to shield himself behind, turning his back and switching on the sink under the guise of cleaning up when really he just needs a few deep breaths.

He _thinks_. Tries to remember his mental checklist for possible ways to make Derek’s betas hate him, which might just be the answer to getting dumped. Blanks are drawn across the board, though, and his gaze falls to the floor, studying the white tile of the kitchen. Yoda’s food bowl has been moved to beside Ash’s and a decent amount is gone, which –

“Hey, Derry?” Stiles questions, actually begins lathering up his hands.

“Yeah?” is called back, Derek already distracted with whatever card game they’ve started up.

Stiles begins tinkering around the kitchen, drying his hands off with a dish towel over the oven handle and then traipsing his way to the fridge. “Where are the babies?”

“Uh – the what? Oh! They’re upstairs.” The men have upped their conversation once again, the fragile aftermath of their Alpha having just gotten berated no longer the atmosphere, apparently. And Derek’s definitely occupied with his cards.

At this rate it’s looking like Stiles could be well on his way to annoying the older man half to death. Or at least all the way to a breakup. So he takes his time opening the freezer ( _jackpot_ , he notes with mirth), placing a few frozen snacks into the microwave, drawing out silence just long enough for Derek to feel as if he’s in the clear conversation-wise.

“Did you put up the baby gate, then?” Stiles continues as he punches in a few minutes for the turnovers to heat, spinning to make his way toward the dining area.

Derek is busy giggling like a schoolgirl, head thrown back with one hand to his mouth and the other cupping his thigh.

It’s a bit of a feat not getting distracted with the juxtaposition of Derek’s childlike cuteness and rugged build, but Stiles perseveres, steps between Boyd and Derek to reiterate, “Did you put up the baby gate, Derek?”

Automatically the man looks up, merriment vanishing as confusion furrows his brow. Pupils blown, frown not as heavy, the guy is definitely drunk. “Uh, yeah.”

Stiles will blame his next move on the cuddliness of Derek’s appearance – grey joggers and a loose t-shirt, snapback covering tousled hair laid flat on his forehead. Stiles tries to ignore the deafening quiet that’s infiltrated the area once again, uses his left hand to tug Derek’s arm off the table so ha can set himself sideways across the man’s lap.

Derek adjusts to it easily, right arm looping around Stiles' back to rest his palm on upper thigh, thumb wiggling itself to fit against the crevice between thigh and groin. He’s a bit stoic, though, quite sobered in demeanor all of a sudden, which is ironic.

Admittedly, the possessive hands spark a heat in Stiles' abdomen, cheeks begging to sell him out as he skates his fingers to the back of Derek’s neck, tickles over the short hairs in reach. The man beneath him affects apathy, but Stiles isn’t entirely convinced, and maybe it has to do with the droop of exhaustion around sea green eyes, hesitancy causing an avoidant gaze.

It’s not exactly thought out when Stiles knocks his head forward to jostle Derek’s hat and turns up a goofy grin, altogether taking the older man a bit by surprise and causing Derek’s eyes to widen before he huffs out a low laugh.

Stiles mindlessly scratches over newly available hair, and Derek’s got an awakening sparkle in his eye, lips curved softly to shake his head. “Silly boy,” the latter tuts, a secret. Flicks off his hat and settles it backwards on Stiles' head in one smooth motion, nuzzles a kiss over the growing scruff of Stiles' jaw.

The younger allows himself to melt into the affection, turn his cheek ever-slowly for a lingering skate of Derek’s lips to the corner of his mouth, where they rest with the faintest pressure. Lazily flicking his lids back open, Stiles is confronted with two sets of eyes – Erica’s and Isaac’s, and he just knows the others saw a bit as well into his and Derek’s bubble.

“Thank you for inviting me, by the way,” Stiles twists his neck to the right to catch Boyd’s eye, high volume piercing through the laid-back ambiance that dimmed ceiling lights provide.

Boyd is caught off-guard, eyebrow asking to cock as he leans back in his chair, drags an ankle over the opposite knee. “Uh –“

“It was adorable, though,” Stiles pops back in, leaning to the side, Derek’s hand reflexively shooting to his side in precaution while the younger pinches at Boyd’s cheek, “how nervous you two were to bring it up.”

“Wait, what?” Derek intervenes, reshaping and steering Stiles' position as if corralling a rambunctious toddler.

Since Boyd isn’t biting (and maybe he’s the only sensible one in the room), Stiles addresses Derek: “Oh, you know how Isaac and Boyd kept alluding to a Boys’ Night. Kept skittering around the topic.” He sends a saccharine smile to Boys who clearly still isn’t taking the shit, countenance displaying his disbelief.

“I wasn’t sure about coming, but I wanted to surprise you, baby,” Stiles strikes a broad grin, hands cupping either side of Derek’s jaw before switching his focus to the people around them. “It’s our One Week Anniversary. Isn’t that exciting?”

Their game has been paused since Stiles found a seat on Derek’s lap, his friends a bit on edge, it seems. But they all let out faux-cheery confirmations, inharmonious. It’s amusing watching them all awkwardly suffer. Cringe-worthy acting skills. Luckily, the microwave goes off, offering escape for Stiles to wiggle out of Derek’s lap to go check on the food.

Like before, chatter gradually escalates the further Stiles gets from Derek’s company, and he almost wants to tune in to see if they’re talking about him. But instead he cautiously lifts the plate from the microwave, hopes the aroma isn’t strong enough to alert any of the other guys. It’s a bit of a process banging around the kitchen as quietly as possible while looking for a cutting board, and once it’s found Stiles is a bit paranoid someone will come into the kitchen, but slicing the turnover into bite-size rolls and transferring them to a china plate Stiles took down from its mount on top of the shelf (which screams ‘ _do not touch_ ’) is relatively easy. Messy, but easy.

It’s just a few minutes later, but the card table is back to their drunken laughter, so Stiles takes a moment to chuckle over the absurdity of the snack he’s prepared. Still, he thinks he can do better, so he ventures to the fridge based on a remembrance of the prior night. _Perfect_.

When the party favors are garnished Stiles waltzes back out of the kitchen and unceremoniously plops the dish in the middle of the table. Right on top of the betting pool. “Hope you’re all hungry, boys.”

A dragging silence.

“Is that a _Hot Pocket_?” one brave soul asks, incredulous. Liam, maybe.

Instantly, Isaac cracks up, tosses his head back to cackle unintelligibly.

Erica is wide-mouthed but speechless for a change.

“Yep!” Stiles chirps, hands on his hips, “And left-over salad.”

“Wasn’t that dish mounted?” Derek growls out as if doesn’t know the answer. Finally he’s getting some of that Alpha Werewolf spunk back!

“Quite high up, Pumpkin. Honestly, we’ve got to find a better spot for it so I can reach it easier,” Stiles proclaims off-handedly, skirts his eyes around the semi-circle.

Such a touch crowd, honestly. They all just blink owlishly for a bit until Derek leans forward austerely to take the honor. “Thank you, baby,” he stresses through clenched teeth, holds a pitiful pepperoni Hot Pocket slice in his hand next to a lone baby carrot. The crunch is auditory, Derek’s friends diving in enthusiastically to follow lead.

 _Yikes_ is all Stiles can surmise as he watches Derek’s jaw strain, voice tight with frustration. “Good boys!” is what Stiles says next, tone babying and slightly antagonizing. Hah, dog jokes.

This time he takes off for the washroom by the entrance, needs actual walls between him and everyone else in order to figure his next move. Fortunately, an idea comes quickly while he’s washing the Hot Pocket’s red sauce off of his hands.

There’s a decorative towel in an ornate twist reflecting behind Stiles in the mirror, so he switches on the hot water and works to untie the cloth from its rail, running a good portion of it under the heated water and ringing it out slightly before shutting off the faucet and trekking back to the dining table, water dripping down his hand and onto the floor like a trail of breadcrumbs.

Either by reflex or conditioned response, the decibel level ranging from the group’s conversation negatively correlates with Stiles' proximity, them growing mute as soon as Stiles is halted to Derek’s right, fretting, “Oh, goodness, we need to clean you up, Der-Der.”

The man doesn’t have time to respond, open mouth and choked off response frozen by Stiles grabbing Derek’s hands himself and scrubbing them with the damp cloth. He makes sure to dry with the other end before swiftly grabbing Derek’s chin and swiping off his cheeks even though nothing is on them.

Derek flinches, tries to lock into hold Stiles' wrist, but the younger avoids the shackle, turns to the others with an expectant, innocent gaze. “Does anyone else need this?”

A chorus of ‘ _no_ ’s resound, a couple of head shakes and averted gaze, but Jackson’s answer sticks out: “Fuck no, dude.” Brash by any account, rude.

Not that Stiles has much of a problem with it, but he figures Article Stiles might. Playing up the damsel in distress, Stiles lets his features crumple slightly as he leans against Derek.

“Jackson,” Derek warns as his arm goes wide to accommodate Stiles, reaching up to rest a palm in the center of his back.

“I was just trying to help, but that’s alright,” Stiles near-whimpers, makes sure his tone is quiet and eyes downcast.

He finds himself cajoled into Derek’s lap, the older looking to lock eyes as he assures, “You’re fine, _Słoneczko_. Why don’t I teach you how to play, hmm? Would you like that?”

Stiles takes a moment, cuts his eyes as best he can to discretely consider everyone else’s demeanor, pleased that the collective body language spells uncomfortable. “Sure,” he sighs, offers a tiny quirk of his lips as if he doesn’t know how to play Texas Hold ‘Em.

“Great,” Derek, such an Alpha wolf, enunciates, squeezes Stiles' hip as he begins explaining the rules and procedures of the game.

A few minutes later Stiles has the rundown, Derek animated in teaching, the tension intertwined among the group mostly eased, mouths blabbering. And Stiles is beginning to genuinely enjoy himself with Boyd and Erica a riot together, Mason and Liam genial souls, and Jackson and Isaac loudly commentating.

He figures it’s time to move on to his next phase. “I’m taking the dish to the kitchen, Der.”

“Huh? Alright,” he asides distractedly, more caught up in Mason and Isaac’s dialect. Still, he pats Stiles' hip in assent.

Stiles picks up the towel off the floor from where he dropped it, frowns in pity over the area of hardwood it slicked up, is about to make his way around the table when –

“Is that from the bathroom, Stiles?” an incredulous ask.

“Oh, yeah,” Stiles drops his gaze to the gaudy cloth before continuing his lap around the table, reaching between Jackson and Liam to pick up the Chinaware that’s been cleared of food since Derek hinted that it should be eaten. “It was just hanging on the towel rack looking ridiculous, so I figured I should put it to use.”

A truly mystified looks crosses over Derek’s face, features gradually working to relax but instead just appearing irritated because of the struggle. Nothing is said, and his friends have quietened once more.

Stiles rounds behind Jackson, affords a glance at his cards as he did to the others’. “Did you say a Straight has five cards in sequential order?”

Immediately Jackson slaps his cards face-down, twists around toward Stiles. “What the fuck, man?”

It’s a bit of a battle not to laugh, and Stiles just manages it by brisking away and calling over his shoulder, “I guess that’s my answer, then.”

This time, Stiles doesn’t have to strain to eavesdrop.

“Jackson, it’s not a big deal,” Derek ensures, sounds like he’s a hair's breadth away from killing something himself.

“He fucking told you my hand!” Jackson outrages in response.

Stiles winces from the kitchen, is partially relieved when Boyd and Derek argue on his behalf for compensation via getting his chips back instead of pounding Stiles' face in. But at the same time he’s finally getting a rise out of people, and it would be of no benefit to stop now.

The whole night’s been a process of stop and start, constantly having to grapple for his next move, and this time is no exception. But he’s a bit desperate to hit Derek while the mood is still rough, so as soon as his eyes fall on the damned mini cactus by the sliding glass door, a gasp escapes.

“Derek! What have you done to our plant?” he rushes to it, squats down to cup the pot in his hands. And he feels a bit like the lead in the climax of a play, all eyes on him.

The man has to stand up to see what exactly is happening, hand outstretched as if searching for a response. “I just put it there so we could use the table, Stiles.”

“Right, and next you’re just going to toss it off the balcony so you have room to piss off the edge, hm?”

“What –“ is grunted, Derek cutting off a his brows furrow, “That doesn’t even –“

“And it hasn’t even been watered, Derek!” Stiles bemoans, stands from his crouch to reveal his disgust. “What am I supposed to make of this?”

Lowly, someone questions, “Cactuses have to be watered?”

Not even an act, Stiles is prepared to square up against the perpetrator. “Any halfwit knows that you have to water cactuses.” It’s maybe harsher than intended, but.

“Stiles!” Derek berates.

“Oh, fuck off, Derek,” he slurs, eyes actually slitting, “How am I supposed to respect you when you’ve thrown away my gift to you? Does this mean you’ll just push aside our relationship as well?”

“It’s a fucking plant, Stiles!” the man retorts, louder than they’ve reached as of yet with enough malice in his roar to actually stump Stiles. Face heated and muscles bulging in wide arms.

Such a scene in so little time, Stiles thinks. And as levelly as possible, already stepping forward, “I’m leaving so you can think about what you’ve done, and I’m taking this cactus with me.” To make good on his word, Stiles hastes to the door.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Derek trails the younger, apparently still keyed up as he breathes deeply and keeps the door shut with his body propped on one hand.

Intimidating is what it is, Stiles never having seen Derek so intensely agitated. “Let me go, Derek,” he says calmly, still assertive.

“I want to know what the fuck is going on,” he ignores Stiles’ request.

Annoyed now, actually feeling a bit hot under the man’s overbearingness, Stiles twists the doorknob and elbows Derek just heavily enough to get him to back up. “ _Move_.”

But Derek follows anyway, yapping at Stiles while the younger jabs the call button for the elevator. Hopefully it’s not at ground floor.

“Tell me what that was, Stiles,” Derek demands, standing tall with a puffed out chest.

He decides to play dumb. “I don’t think I know what you’re talking about.”

A grunt is uttered before Stiles is manhandled around, suddenly up against a wall with Derek’s arms caging him against it, no choice but to look up at the man. “You know exactly what I’m talking about: you’re up then you’re down, here and there, and I don’t know what the fuck is going on with you half the time.”

“Oh, so you think I’m some type of mental?” Stiles plays along, crosses his arms and leans back as far as he can manage to glare at dark eyes and red lips. (He won’t admit that Derek is an ungodly kind of sexy while angry.)

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Derek throws his hands up, finally creates space between them just to begin articulating with his hands, “I never said you’re insane, but you’re _acting_ insane, and I don’t know why you try so hard at it.”

The elevator _ding_ s, and Stiles nearly curses in relief, worming his way along the wall to the elevator’s open doors. “I resent that, Derek.”

The dude fucking leans against the elevator door, blocking it from closing and content as ever to be doing so. “Let’s see, just tonight you dismantled two of my decorations – one of which is actually a bit of an heirloom, thanks – insulted my be–friends,” he corrects himself from saying what sounded like the beginning to ‘betas,’ physically ticking off his fingers as he goes, which may be the most annoying part, “and had a meltdown over a plant that can go much longer than five fucking days without water.”

Again, the elevator _ding_ s to indicate an object in its way.

Stiles actually restrains himself from patting his own back for all he accomplished in one evening. “You know, I don’t think I can be with someone who likes to exaggerate my faults and use them against me,” he shrugs, pushes the ground floor button in hopes that Derek will get the hint.

“Yeah?” the older asks sardonically, possibly bothered that he’s not been able to rouse Stiles' attitude (which is a bit ironic, but), “Well I don’t think I can be with someone who tries to make an ass out of me every chance he gets.”

And that. Well. That actually strikes a cord, the guilt that Stiles has been able to quell now seeping through the crack Derek struck in the dam. He does his best to conceal his emotions, though, arms tight across his chest with one foot crossing over the other. “So I guess that means we’re over then.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Derek huffs, finally moves back, but his anger is what’s propelling him, arms thrown around with a stinging drip to his words.

A last effort maybe, but Stiles prefers to call it a truce. “Bye,” he mutters just before the doors close, still locked gaze with a roughened Derek as he backs away.

There’s no response.

**

“ _Fuck_ ,” Derek hisses as his head falls against the outside of his entrance. He thinks should probably run off a few miles to release all built up frustration. A bit embarrassed mostly, he doesn’t want to go back inside and have everyone talk shit. The fact that it’s _his_ apartment has Derek scrunching his eyes closed for one last deep breath before twisting the knob.

Everyone is suspiciously quiet, Erica actually eyeing Derek while the others lounge around the table unwatching.

Derek briefly considers going back to their cards or playing what he’s recorded of the Yankees last game, acting as if he kissed the person he’s seeing _goodbye_ rather than broke it off entirely. But the game kind of _is_ ruined because of Stiles. Besides, Derek is too preoccupied trying to wrap his mind around what the hell just happened, what’s been going on since he started seeing Stiles to play what just happened off.

“It’s over,” he concludes, lets his eyes hit the floor as he works his shoulder into some type of shrug.

“Bro,” Mason speaks first, slightly apologetic, “Fuck that, yeah?”

“Quite right,” Liam scoffs, “He’s mad, bro,”

And Derek doesn’t want to hear that, doesn’t think much will come from insulting Stiles. He’s about to ask them all to forget about it when Erica suddenly denies, “No,” sets her features in stone and grabs Boyd’s arm to walk at Derek, repeating, “No, No.”

“Wha –?” Derek cuts off as he’s forced backward by his two friends until they all end up to the side of his kitchen and beside the laundry room, an illusion of secrecy with a wall to his back and door to his left.

“You can’t do this, mate,” is what Erica starts with, “What about the bet?”

Sudden realization flashes across Boyd’s face in a widened mouth and eyebrows shot high. “He’s right, Hale.”

Derek just doesn’t want to think about it. Not about how one man can make him feel so perplexed and not how because of it he’s lost a pitch. “Look,” he shakes his head, “What’s done is done, and I don’t even think he was much into me anyway –”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Boyd barks out in a laugh, cheeks rushing blood, “The kid worships the ground you walk on!”

“It’s true,” Erica insists so easily, arms crossed and a nod, “He seems into you from what I can tell.”

Derek is lost on what the others are seeing, but he doesn’t want to explore the topic further. Apart from the one night on the couch, Stiles has always acted as if in control. One step ahead of the game, unaffected by Derek. 

“I broke up with him,” Derek stresses, an anchor in his stomach dragging it down the longer he ruminates on the fact that he just gave up the one man his wolf has ever gone belly-up for, not to mention letting a huge business deal go down the drain, “What am I supposed to do about it now?”

“Go catch him!” Boyd urges.

Playing along despite the absurdity of the suggestion, Derek asks, “And what do I say? The boy has ridiculously high standards and unique interpretation of wording, obviously.”

“You’re a charmer, Der,” Erica expresses as if it’s obvious, “Go to couples’ therapy or something. Be creative.”

Derek can’t help his heart rate tripping, feet urging to move now that the seed has been planted that he could fix what he just messed up. He blames it on the fact that he’s an Alpha and constantly feeling the pressure to keep his pack happy and healthy and whole. Still, “I’m not creative, Erica. I don’t know how to get him back.”

“Derek,” Erica says evenly, but its bold, “He likes you, and you like him. Just go talk to him, tell him you’re sorry.”

And, yeah, maybe part of the problem is that Derek is so thrown off by Stiles. Minus the crazy, though, he’d like to get to know the boy further. Learn the way he tics and what interests him, what draws that breathtaking smile to his face. And if Derek’s closest betas are saying there’s chemistry then maybe he _can_ fix it, set the Dilaurentis Deal back on track, continue seeing an overall compelling boy in the process.

“Yeah?” Derek queries, seeking one last reassurance before he sets off to possibly make a fool of himself. But he doesn’t have much to lose, so.

“ _Yes_ ,” Erica avers, “Go, Alpha, or you’ll regret it.”

Boyd nods along encouragingly.

“Alright, yeah,” Derek nods his head and begins jumping on his toes to psych himself up. “Fuck, I’ve got to go,” he curses before darting forward and to his door.

Dilemma is faced right outside of Derek’s apartment in choosing between the elevator and stairs. On the one hand, the elevator is likely at ground floor, and it takes a good bit of time to travel, but the staircase Derek doesn’t want to venture right now. He’s running out of time, though, so, stairs.

He’s slightly winded by the time he reaches the lobby, doesn’t have time to worry about that, though. With heaving inhales he exits the complex, jerks his head left and right in search for the damned boy he sent off, shouts, “Stiles!”

The younger is a good ways down the sidewalk, likely looking to hail a cab when he turns around at his name.

Hands clasped behind his head, Derek grunts once before jogging off toward Stiles. “Wait,” he pleads, added effect in his pitiful appearance, surely.

Up close, the boy’s expression reads plainly puzzled, stature softened with sloped shoulders and a damn mini cactus clutched to his chest. The night has a chill to it, cloudy, and Derek for a moment can only imagine drawing the boy in to comfort rather than reflect on the moments when the sleeping snake has coiled up to strike.

Dropping to his knees may be a bit melodramatic, but Derek can’t quite stop himself from presuming the position, hands reaching to interlock with one of Stiles' through still-deep inhales. “Hear me out, sweetheart. Please.”

Although Stiles’ pheromones have been pretty light yet easy to read the past week, right now they’re cloying and hard to distinguish – a mix of sadness and guilt forefront, salty and molded.

“Derek, get up,” is a crooning sigh off the pillow of Stiles' lips, the man appearing even more vulnerable with Derek watching the underside of his jaw.

“I –”

“Breathe,” Stiles orders. Slowly his shoulders draw back, puppy eyes narrowing as his eyebrows tug down slightly.

Derek plays with the thought that the boy doesn’t mean to come off as intimidating, merely assumes the position naturally. Still, Stiles continues to conjoin their hands, thumb slowly rubbing warmth, and it draws hope into Derek’s chest.

Breath almost evened, toeing just so nearer, “That got out of hand, Stiles, and I apologize for it.”

The boy’s head tilts almost toward dispute, mouth puckering as if about to do so vocally.

“No, honestly, Stiles. Just let me say something, alright? Please.” Derek’s continued erratic heartbeat will surely give away the fact that it’s not due to the cardio, but Derek doesn’t care in the moment.

Stiles' features settle on easy restraint, still troubled in a fretful brow, but he nods his consent. And he doesn’t try backing out of their close proximity.

“I’m nervous,” Derek blurts out as his opener, hopes opening up will permeate Stiles’ defense. “I don’t do this often, okay? I mean, I’ve dated, but –” he glances up as a hiccup, gauges how the younger boy is receiving even just the first few notes from his mouth – “Well, it’s a bit of a story.”

“Derek,” Stiles utters, tugs on their tied hands, “it’s fine.”

“No,” Derek insists, holds Stiles’ palm to his sternum as he steps closer, “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. But I want to learn how to talk to you, and I want to see where this can go for us.”

Stiles' eyes are downcast and to the left, ears interested, but there’s a moue of discontent present, so Derek cranes his neck to try and garner the boys attention, propositions, “I know I was out of line, baby, but I’ll do anything to work it out. Like, my buddy suggested couples’ therapy, and even that I’ll be willingly to do.”

 _Fuck it_ , Derek decides, swoops down a degree to nose at Stiles' cheek. The boy doesn’t retreat, so Derek manages to tune out honking traffic and the interspersed pedestrian, lets the orange backlight of a near lamp pole encase them in their own atmosphere. Stiles’ underlying scent isn’t hard to get lost in, at least. “Stiles?”

Finally, he tilts back and catches eyes with Derek. “Couples’ therapy?” It’s more a confirmation than askance.

“Yes. Whatever it takes,” Derek receives his inch and runs a mile, rubs a kiss over Stiles' jaw.

“I do know a guy,” the boy is thoughtful, looking up as if working logistics in his mind, subconsciously leaning further into the older man’s heat.

“Yeah?” Derek prompts, lips twitching helplessly up as emotion widens his chest.

“I can call and schedule an emergency session. Tomorrow afternoon, alright?” Stiles locks eyes with Derek again, suddenly all business.

“That’s just fine, sweetheart,” Derek confirms, “I just want to be able to prove myself.” In more ways than one.

Unreadable eyes rest on Derek’s until they break away again. “I better be going. I’ll text you the details tomorrow.”

Derek decides not to push it, presses his lips just over Stiles' first two knuckles, waits for his flickering gaze and holds it for a few seconds before letting their hands untangle. “Thank you, _Słoneczko_. Be safe.”

Stiles nods, tucks his previously stolen hand into his jacket and turns back toward the main street with just one glance back over the shoulder when he reaches the corner.


	9. Day Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is kind of late!

| _Thursday_ |

Stiles actually feels kind of bad that Derek’s money will be taken in whatever amount. He knows the transaction must be done in order to maintain the legitimacy – however false – of the session, but still. Maybe he can find a way to wheedle the money back and slip it once again into Derek’s pocketbook.

Or donate it to some sort of charity. Wildlife conservation seems fitting.

Also, Derek’s dressed to impress. Stiles can’t quite tell if it’s something he’d normally wear to work or if it’s compliment of the special occasion, but he knows that the dark jeans in question hug Derek’s backside just enough to accentuate voluptuousness and that the tweed blazer broadens his shoulders even further. It’s distracting, and Stiles thinks there’s a little green monster called envy whispering in his ear.

Every time those thoughts creep up he reminds himself that Article Stiles has fallen dormant for too long. “You’ve gone over the questions I sent you, right?”

“Yes, babe,” Derek states, hands in his pockets and content as ever.

They’re rounding the corner, close to the apartment where the session will be held. It’s all familiar the scenery, assortments of flowers hanging from various windowsills vibrant as ever despite the cold. “I don’t want you making us looks foolish, Derek. I swear, if you hesitate on my birth name or favorite color –“

“Are you nervous?” Derek jumps in with a curious grin growing larger exponentially.

“No,” Stiles answers automatically – the truth.

Derek eyes him skeptically, most definitely caught the blip in his heartbeat.

A few more yards and Stiles finds himself birthing actual nerves right in front of the cute, residential, ground-level apartment, golden number a plaque on cheap, black wood. He’s anxious to see if he’ll accidentally let something on too revealing. Not that he did when Erica was around him last night, but this time will be different.

“Mieczysław; purple,” Derek offers, soft eyes turned left toward Stiles as his chest faces the door. His accent rounds on the syllables a bit awkwardly, but he’s trying, and that’s something.

“WHAT!” Stiles shrieks “How do you know my name?”

Derek has a slick smirk on his stupid face as he shrugs his shoulders. “Not important.”

Lunging at Derek, Stiles aims for a chokehold, but Derek has the advantage of being vaguely active on top of being a werewolf, so Stiles is more irritated than embarrassed when the oaf begins cackling at Stiles’ admittedly pathetic attempts to brawl.

The door swings open just after Stiles manages to land an elbow to Derek’s gut, the man sounding out and ‘ _Oof!_ ” with Scott stood at the doorway leisurely. 

Scott is dressed in a white, embroidered tunic with what looks to be black leggings as bottoms. He’s shoeless with fake prescription glasses perched on his nose that are suspiciously shaped just like his retro-looking YSLs. “Derek Hale. Stiles Stilinski,” he states, “Welcome.”

Stiles thinks he might crack up under the ridiculousness of the situation, so he leans back against Derek as Scott turns to walk deeper into his flat.

Glancing up, Stiles is a bit surprised to see such a severe expression on Derek’s face, tight jaw and unblinking eyes and frozen stance. Even his nostrils are flaring – and OH SHIT! Derek is about to attack the other Alpha werewolf he senses!

Unthinkingly, Stiles steps himself between the doorway and Derek, grabs at Derek’s face. “It’s okay! This guy is the best; I – er – comes here every Sunday for my anxiety.” Which isn’t completely untrue. Plus, it’ll give reason to the fact that Stiles’ scent is likely all over Scott’s apartment.

Derek locks eyes with Stiles, and he seems to relax his shoulders at least.

“I mean, I know he’s dressed like a weirdo, but –”

“Be _have_ ,” Derek warns as he tilts forward slightly to stoop over the younger, and his lax demeanor is returning, thank God. Sorry folks, no Alpha showdown today.

“ _You_ behave, Mr. Grumpy,” Stiles playfully bites at Derek’s jaw. Then gives a butt-slap and tongue-stick-out before zooming away.

The apartment is immaculately clean, Stiles notes. Blinds pulled up, curtains drawn away. And _fuck_ – Scott probably put them up to take the piss: Crème base, blooming roses. Stiles can admit they look alright, but he’ll gladly rip them down if it means Derek not being able to recognize them as the matching set to his new bathroom.

Having been on autopilot while imagining having to burn curtains and throw Scott on top of the fire, Stiles comes to and finds himself on Scott’s sofa, Derek to his right and Scott in an armchair that he spun up from seemingly nowhere.

“Before we begin, can I ask how you’ll be paying for the session?” Scott queries, crosses one knee over the other and straightens his spine.

Derek raises one brow but leans sideways to fumble in his pocket, produces a pen and checkbook. “Who should I make it out to?”

“You can call me Paco, but that’s not the name under my account,” Scott supplies, and Stiles almost wishes he would’ve just used his real damn name.

“Okay,” Derek draws out, clearly unimpressed. Stiles rests his palm on the man’s knee in hopes that it’s reassuring. “Amount?”

“$300,” Scott informs, no hesitation.

“Uh, no,” Stiles retorts automatically, slitting his eyes at Scott before twisting his torso towards Derek to frown up at him. “Don’t pay him that.”

Derek flashes eyes awkwardly to Scott and back, lowers his chin for an air of privacy. “Stiles –“

“That’s twice the going rate, Derek,” Stiles insists, fingers digging in to the man’s bicep and voice unashamedly loud.

“ _Stiles_ ,” The man starts again, much more authoritative now, “It’s a last minute, one-time session. And you said he’s good, right?” Derek sounds as if he’s still not convinced himself.

Stiles doesn’t bother replying, smooths over Derek’s coat where his nails indented. Article Stiles might continue arguing, and so might actual Stiles if they were visiting a certified therapist for legitimate reason, but the money won’t actually be drawn from Derek’s bank account. Checks are easily ripped up, after all.

Derek’s tone softens, “Don’t worry about it, _Słoneczko_.” He presses a kiss to Stiles' temple.

That tugs Stiles alert, at least. Makes him want to jerk away as well since Scott will only eat the physical affection up. But Stiles doesn’t want to draw attention to the gesture or create suspicion by discouraging such a mild form of PDA for the first time.

“Let’s begin, shall we?” Scott prompts with his gaze downward, jotting away on a brandished notebook.

Stiles is startingto wonder what all he’s hiding underneath his oversized cloth of attire. And if he’s actually taking notes or just drawing stick figures.

Derek nods even though Scott isn’t looking, leans forward on his elbows and steeples his fingers.

“Can I ask about your sex life?” Scott whips his head up, pen poised.

Stiles sets a reminder for July fourth to shoot a bottle rocket straight up Scott’s ass.

“Um, satisfying?” Derek gets out relatively smoothly albeit reserved, “I’m not sure I quite know what type of answer you’re looking for.”

Scott chuckles, but it does nowt to ease Derek’s tense posture. “I only ask because you two seem rather comfortable with one another. Your body language says as much, at least.”

That’s a load of bullshit, Stiles thinks, nearly spews aloud: Derek has inched slightly away from him, is still leaning forward as if ready to bolt. “We’d like to move on, I believe.” It’s surprisingly terse.

Scott finally looks to Stiles, mirth twisting on the corner of his lips. At sight of Stiles' hardened stare, though, it disappears with a clearing of the throat. “You’ve been seeing each other eight days, correct?”

Confirmation from both Stiles and Derek.

“And what are your intentions with one another?” Eye contact lingers briefly before Scott’s back to his notepad.

Stiles should have known this would have been Scott’s version of Best Friend versus Boyfriend. The Shovel Talk will surely commence at their next session. He can find little humor in the situation as he’s on the defensive, though.

Derek sits back up, tilts toward Stiles to search his eyes. “We’d like to continue seeing each other as long as the relationship remains healthy.”

It’s a bit of a posed question for Stiles, so the younger loops his arm with Derek’s, rests his laced fingers on Derek’s forearm, and picks up, “Yes, _Paco_ : what my boyfriend said. But – if it helps – you can think of this as premarital counseling.”

“Oh!” Scott dramatically brightens, joyous grin hiding the underlain hysterics. “So you’re engaged?”

“Well,” Stiles drags out as he feels Derek shift beside him, “He’s planning on proposing soon.”

Scott offers an appraising expression as he tucks one leg under himself. “Derek, this is true?”

“Of course it is,” Stiles jumps back in, “We’ve already discussed the parameters for his big question, and he’s very excited.” Stiles squeals in Derek’s ear and smacks a wet kiss to his cheek, has to actually put effort into bouncing on the age-old couch cushions. “Also,” he turns back to Scott as if by added thought, “We’re remaining abstinent until we’re at least engaged, so that might help answer your question on our sex life.”

“Stiles,” Derek trains, visibly scoots away this time so to twist more toward the younger, “I feel like we should be discussing these things privately in order to reach agreement.”

Jerking his arms away, Stiles tugs his eyebrows together and lets his jaw fall down. “Are you ashamed of us, Derek?”

“No,” he replies, tone firm and eyes steady, “but this is what I’m talking about, Stiles.”

“Do you see this?” Stiles throws his left arm out, palm up in askance of Scott, “He always turns the blame on me, Paco.”

“Well –“ Scott starts, shifts forward with a crinkled brow.

“What are you even talking about, Stiles? I ask for an inch and you take a mile backward.” Derek is serious, right arm mirroring Stiles' left, brown eyes wide and dark.

Quietly, because the other two are expectant of Stiles apparently, “I’m not sure if you can combine two colloquialisms – no, euphemisms? – and retain desired effect.”

Derek doesn’t respond verbally. Instead, his head knocks back slightly as his spine straightens. Then, he slowly brings his elbows to his knees and rests his head in his hands.

Scott’s eyes are round in question. His voice, though, is inspiringly professional: “Take a breath if you need to Derek; collect your thoughts.”

“Oh, he’s got a bit of an anger issue,” Stiles stage-whispers as he smooths a palm between Derek’s shoulder blades.

“I don’t have anger issues,” the man dissents, straight-edged and nearly cutting as he lifts his gaze back up. “You always take what I say or do the wrong way and twist and exaggerate it.” His eyes are squinted, corners of the mouth downturned as if disgusted before a scoff scrapes passes his lips.

A bit taken aback by the passion behind Derek’s sentiment, Stiles leans away from the man, tongue lost on anything to utter.

“Alright, okay,” Scott steps in, slow drawl more annoying than easing for Stiles, “Let’s try to keep this a positive space for the rest of our time. Let’s hear each other out.” He waits for a nod from both parties. “Good. Now, Derek, continue if you will.”

The older is still hunched over, focusing on his intertwined fingers. “I just feel like he doesn’t respect me.” He lets his eyes wander up. Not toward Stiles, but around the living area of the flat. “Like no matter what I do it’s not enough. And I guess that’s a major issue for me in trying to grow a relationship.”

“Der,” Stiles can’t help but mutter in response, dares to wrap his arm back around Derek’s, fingers wrestling over his wrist as they itch to trace the tender skin, “Not enough? You’ve gone above and beyond to make me happy.”

Scoffing, Derek begins to shake his head.

“No, Derek, really,” Stiles promises as his right hand floats to Derek’s thigh, left cupping his forearm, “What’s not to respect? You’re so successful already and adaptive to circumstance – at least from what I can tell. And you’re charming when you want to be.” He pauses for breath, tries not to rest on the implication behind his declarations. Head tilting to rove over the man’s expression, “You always try to take care of me before yourself, and that has truly amazed me.”

Derek appears mildly stunned when he looks up to Stiles and locks eyes. There’s even a decent blush coloring the tips of his ears cherry red. “I didn’t know you felt that way,” he grumbles, obviously shy.

“That was beautiful, boys,” Scott interjects before Stiles has a chance to respond, and Stiles is appreciative of it. “You were honest about a concern and it was disputed calmly. Now, can either of you come up with a suggestion as to fixing the disconnect between perception and reality?”

Derek shifts again to angle toward Stiles, left hand rising to hold the younger’s chin. “It’s just nice to hear that every once in a while,” he states gruffly. Macho Alpha man must not break facade ever.

“Okay,” Stiles replies a bit distractedly, definitely wondering when Scott became so insightful and if he’s actually just written down speaking cues he remembered from Allison.

“Following that trail,” Scott calls attention with a considerably loud voice as he scribbles away at his paper, “Can we have you, Stile, share your main concern regarding the relationship?”

With awaiting eyes on him, Stiles first concedes, “Sure, Pacos,” and slits his eyes at Scott. Stiles then wonders if Scott is trying to act like they don’t know each other by forgetting Stiles’ name, which is a stupid tactic, because Derek has probably smelled Scott all over him before.

And then after Stiles remembers he’s supposed to be answering a question he forgets what was asked, feels like this is an actual therapy session like when the Stilinski family tried counseling upon Claudia’s initial diagnosis. “Um,” he tries, can’t grab a train of thought.

“Take your time, _Słoneczko_.” Derek’s arm curling around his waist does little to prompt him, but it is prelude to him focusing on what to say so as not to melt into the embrace.

“Perhaps not your main concern, just any you may have regarding your relationship,” Scott prompts again, likely having recognized Stiles’ spaced-out look.

“The future,” Stiles finally blurts out. And, really, all of those worries revolve around the fact that the relationship is a sham and it can only end badly, but he’s already said it, so he formulates an acceptable explanation: “Anything that hints at Derek and me building a life together he doesn’t take well to. Like, I added some personal touches to his home and he never commented on them, and he wasn’t very excited about an album I made about our future life.”

Derek had stilled as the detailing went on, Stiles successfully creating an awkward situation. “Stiles, you did those things without my knowing. You sprung both the decorations and album on me out of nowhere, and I was confused because I didn’t even realize you were very interested in me.”

“So are you closer to the same wavelength as per what your continued relationship would look like?” Scott asks when Stiles doesn’t immediately respond to Derek, needing time to regroup because Derek’s qualification was rather reasonable and not something too easily twisted. Rats. Stiles: 20, Derek: 1.

“I do hope to settle down one day, have kids, relax,” the older man takes it upon himself to answer, “But, Stiles, at this moment I’m focused on my career. Don’t get me wrong: I want to date you and treat you, but we’ve only been seeing each other a week. Hell, we haven’t even met each other’s friends or families.” Derek’s confidence seems to grow the further he goes on, and now he’s leaned on his elbows again, casual with a half-frown as if waiting for someone to applaud his point.

And Stiles would. He’s on the exact same page, actually. His own career is first as well, and even though he didn’t have intentions of actively seeking a romance, he would gladly continue seeing Derek under different circumstances.

But he can’t relay any of that, is the thing. He can’t laugh out all the weight on his shoulders with the explanation of ‘ _You’ve been punk’d, dude_.’ He doesn’t want bad blood between them, and informing Derek of the means behind their troubles would surely not sit well. Ideally, if Derek is bothered enough by the relationship, then he’ll leave thinking he’s won because he’ll have escaped, but Stiles will have won as well with the meat of an article. And Stiles is aiming for the win-win.

“Technically I _have_ met your friends, Derek. And your mother, kind of,” Stiles straightens, lets condescension sink back onto his tongue.

“Yeah, but,” Derek grapples for his lost ground, “That was through your own scheming, not consent.”

Stiles lets his features fall in exasperation, turns to Scott as if they’re the only two in on the joke (which, well –), “One step forward, two back,” he huffs.

“I just meant –“

“No, I get it,” Stiles cuts off Derek, shrugs his shoulder and avoids eye contact with the man, “you really _are_ ashamed of me, want to keep me your dirty little secret.”

Scott’s mouth puckers in question, pen raised before his lips flatten out, hands falling as he’s been interrupted.

“Cut it out, Stiles,” Derek grits, “You know exactly what I meant, but you know what? You’re going to get your way anyway, so why don’t we just go to Staten Island?”

It’s all sardonic, and Stiles might have spark an attitude back if he weren’t so stunned that Derek is even suggesting letting Stiles meet his _pack_. Like the Hale pack, his blood. Stiles might have laugh nervously if he didn’t feel like a deer in a headlight.

Through a deep breath, Derek seems to be thinking over something in his head only to give in. “I want to work on this relationship, Stiles, so let me take you to Staten Island. My mom is already a fan, hm?” He seems more calm, genuine, sincere. 

For his part, Stiles is too lost on deep green eyes to come up with a reason as to _not_ meet the man’s family. He’d been playing this whole time at pushing to do so, but he didn’t think it through if Derek were to yield.

“I, for one, think that is a wonderful idea,” Scott finally works his way back into the session, posture tall and smile dazzling.

Clenching teeth are hard to hide, and Stiles barely is able to with Derek so close.

“See, baby? We can even go this weekend if don’t have plans.”

Not quite able to wring Scott’s neck at the moment, Stiles turns to Derek with what he’s sure is a pitiful grimace. “Really?”

“Really, really,” Derek concludes, giddy.

Stiles has flashbacks of the damned _Shrek_ movie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of you have been so nice about the story, but if some parts don't make sense or you have an idea of how to change it up then you can seriously let me know! I want the story to be enjoyable


	10. Day Ten

| _Friday_ |

The presentation is thorough, captivating, and sellable, but Derek should really be rehearsing it. Instead he’s pacing back and forth in front of the cardboard poster wondering if he should have chosen something electronic as the medium.

Boyd and Isaac are kicked back around his desk munching on pizza from a few blocks away, and Derek _really_ should have brought a lunch. Or at least accepted their offer of picking him something up.

“Hale, the poster is the way to go, man. Your presentation is relatively short, so it’s nice to have all the information concise,” Boyd vows between bites of his food.

“It’ll be sweet, dude,” Isaac nods along.

Having been working on presentation techniques all day, Derek just wants a nap. Alas, “I won’t be in the right mindset to run through it this weekend. Should I –“

An abrupt knock and “Hey, Der?” from Derek’s office entrance has him spinning on his heel.

“Hey, babe,” he greets Stiles as soon as the confusion wears off, mellowed scent of salt and caramel and forest rolling over him, “What are you doing here?”

The boy shifts on his feet. “I called you, but you didn’t pick up, so I thought I could just stop by. I don’t mean to interrupt.” It’s almost timid – a vast contrast from the last time Stiles found himself at Wolfe-Mann’s.

A sigh. “I’m sorry, Stiles,” He rubs his thumb and forefinger over his eyes, “I turned my phone off so I wouldn’t get distracted while I’m working. Is something the matter?”

“Well, I just…” Stiles trails off, possibly searching for wording.

Meanwhile, “Could we have a few moments, guys?” Derek directs toward Boyd and Isaac, neither putting up a fight and rather likely itching to get away. Because hearing about the goings on of Derek and Stiles’ relationship is funny, but actually experiencing it is another thing.

“Sorry,” Stiles offers once they’re alone, still leaned against Derek’s door frame.

“No,” Derek shakes his head, walks toward the boy to usher him into the room, “You’re absolutely welcome, _Słoneczko_. I could actually use a break.” He places a hand on Stiles' back, shuts his door with the other.

If Stiles starts up some wild shit, at least Derek will be relieved to go back to his presentation.

They’re both tired, as is apparent, droopy lids and sluggish movements. Derek takes advantage of it first by drawing out the kiss he silently asks for and second by pulling Stiles onto his lap when he claims his chair.

“I brought food,” is Stiles' fare, and he promptly leans down to reach into his bag.

Two sandwiches are revealed in triangular plastic containers, and Derek is flooded with a wave of emotions: pride that Stiles is providing, jealousy that he isn’t able to do so himself, and happiness that he’s about to eat, even despite the fact that the meagre serving won’t be enough to fill him up. “You have no idea how much I needed this, baby, thank you.”

Stiles smiles back easily, gets comfortable on Derek’s lap.

“How was work?” Derek runs a hand over Stiles' khakis, swallows a bite of mayonnaise and lettuce.

“Uneventful. I’m not quite able to finish my article yet, so I drafted it and then shuffled papers around whenever someone walked by.”

It’s so cut and dry that Derek can’t help but cough out a laugh. “What are you planning on doing the rest of the day, then?”

“About that,” the younger starts, eyes glued to the last third of his meal, “I know you’ve already lined up your friend to pet-sit, but I was wondering if maybe Yoda could stay with mine instead? Just in case he has an accident.”

“Of course, babe,” Derek has tilted his head leisurely to peer up at Stiles, yearns to run his fingers through thick hair. “That’s a better idea anyway. As long as I get the little guy back,” he tacks on faux-sternly.

Stiles rolls his eyes good-naturedly, presses closer to Derek’s chest and indulges in a grin, “Oh, _now_ you want him?”

——

“Derek?” Stiles pauses on his way out of the office, Wolfe-Mann employees arriving back from lunch his considered cue to leave.

They decided on Stiles swinging by Derek’s apartment to collect Yoda and then waiting at his own place for Derek to pick him up on the way to Staten Island.

“Yeah?” he’s kind of already presuming a pace.

“I think you’ve got your project in the bag. The visual aid looks good and you’re great with talking to people.” He’s sporting a small smile, voice low and steady.

Derek reflects the expression, the reassurance a pleasant surprise in his chest and on his cheeks. “That really does mean a lot to me, sweetheart.”

A nod, one last kiss. Sugar Sweet.

——

“Couples therapy works?” Isaac snorts out ten minutes later when he finds himself gravitated toward Derek’s office, likely reading the much more relaxed atmosphere.

Derek flicks his presentation board. “We’ll see.”

**

“Change of plans; I’m about to be sick.”

“I watched you swallow Dramamine at least thirty minutes ago, baby.”

“Not from motion sickness. It’s those nasty fries.”

“I’m pretty sure it prevents all types of queasiness, though.”

Stiles has been a wreck for the past twenty-four hours. Tired from being kept up with questions on how the hell he got himself into his given situation, his day has sucked, and he hates to admit that the only highlights have been spent with Derek.

“Bad oil is a force to be reckoned with, Derek,” he banters back.

“Anything else before the ship sails?”

“Ha-ha,” Stiles rolls his eyes at the man’s play on words, “and yes, thanks for asking: I’m freezing my balls off.”

Derek has one arm leaned against his motorcycle, one foot crossed over the other. He’s by the railing, and Stiles has so far yet to risk a peek over. “Five minutes ago it was just your ass,” he gasps, one eyebrow crooked.

“Frostbite works fast,” is Stiles' response, gloved hands shoved into his peacoat, scarf tugged tight and beanie over his ears.

“8:00 pm even,” Derek reads his watch, “Any last words?”

 _It’s unfair how cuddly you look_. “I can’t believe they passed your motorcycle off as a bike.”

The comment quirks Derek’s lips. Resting his games, he extends an arm toward Stiles. “Something tells me this is your first time on the Staten Island Ferry.”

Stiles neither confirms nor denies. But Stiles has a feeling it had more to do with Alpha werewolf intimidation tactics than lax rules.

The boat begins undocking, and Stiles follows Derek’s lead in dropping pointless chatter. “This makes me nervous, Der.”

The man gives it thought, steps away from his bike to grab Stiles' hand himself, lets their fingers intertwine. “Come here, baby.”

Stiles steps toward Derek to rest his head on a sturdy shoulder, Derek’s unencumbered arm wrapping around his back. Slowly they walk their way toward the railing, Stiles not actually looking. They stay like that for a few minutes until Stiles finally gives in, shifts slightly to peek at the city’s lights on display.

Derek’s palm draws circles over Stiles' coat. “I promise you that riding the motorcycle all the way there would have felt much colder.”

A peck to the hollow of Derek’s throat seems a dignified enough answer, forehead resting against a scruffy beard.

“Also,” he continues, “Your stomach ache may have more to do with how fast you scarfed your food down rather than bad oil.

They’re back to the banter, evidently. Stiles worms his fingers under Derek’s Adidas hoodie to pinch at warm skin, which isn’t very effective with gloves on, but. “Did I mention that I’ve forgotten how to swim?”

——

Staten Island isn’t the city, although the traffic on main roads rivals just as well. Stiles has yet to see a lit-up skyscraper, but trees seem to have doubled. Still, there’s the buzz of being in a new place, so he manages to stay awake to press his head against Derek’s shoulder and watch the scenery become more suburban, residential.

It’s not that his nervousness has eased, really, but rather heightened. Transformed, perhaps. Earlier in the day when Talia had called to gush over plans, Stiles' butterflies left a jitter in his system. Now, though, it’s like the downward drop on a rollercoaster, thrill more prominent than fright.

He can tell when they’re close to Derek’s family home. Streetlights abundant, flower gardens and basketball goals and SUVs. As apprehension slowly creeps its way back into Stiles' stomach, the opposite can be said for Derek, and the man shows it off by revving down sleepy streets and winding the bike leisurely as if a snake.

They pull onto a cobbled driveway that lines the left side of a house. Shaped bushes nestled beside the entrance’s staircase, pebbled pathway leading from the street, five large windows framing the front side of the house. It spells out ‘well-off’ but doesn’t beg for attention, is charming.

“Home sweet home,” Derek declares, voice alarmingly loud against the quiet night when there’s no engine to drown it out. He doesn’t move, though, just pats Stiles' thighs and journeys his eyes over the landscape.

Despite his nerves, Stiles does his part to ease off of the backseat, stretch out his legs and clutch at the straps of his duffel. “C’mon, Der. They’ve already heard us pull up, and I don’t want them getting any ideas as to why we’re taking so long.”

Derek cracks a laugh, drops out of his trance. As he loops an arm around Stiles' waist, “I’ll have them know that I can love on my boyfriend whenever I want.”

A fluttering in his stomach. Trying to jump over the rising emotion associated with the label, “You’re such a nuisance, Derek Hale,” Stiles upturns his nose, leans away from the man, “I won’t have you making a bad impression for me.”

“What are you worried about, babe? They’ll love you,” he crooks a brow, seems genuinely curious.

 _Every aspect of this relationship_. Stiles doesn’t voice his thoughts, looks away from Derek. “Let’s just get this over with.”

At that the older gets off of his Ducati, but, “You’ve still got your helmet on, goofy.” He takes it upon himself to de-strap.

Used to the action, Stiles allows Derek to take care of him with only a smidge of embarrassment, stands patiently. “It’s just your parents tonight, right?”

“Parents tonight, sisters and co. tomorrow morning,” Derek confirms, thumbs over Stiles' cheek when it’s uncovered, “And Isaac is Cora’s fiance, so you’ll at least know one person.”

Perfect: another simpleton. “Alright, let’s go,” Stiles turns toward the entrance, one step in front of the other.

“Hold your horses, _Słoneczko_ ,” Derek physically grabs the boy’s elbow and steers him back around despite an annoyed huff.

“ _Derek_ ,” the younger stresses, damn near stomps his foot.

“ _Stiles_ ,” he challenges just before gripping a sharp jaw and slotting their lips together, holding them steady as his tongue works to satiate Stiles' frazzled nerves.

Stiles would be lying if he claimed displeased, cups Derek’s neck and parts his lips accordingly.

“Is that better?” the older hushes once he pulls away, one arm traveling down to grip at Stiles' hip.

In lieu of verbal response Stiles merely exhales, steals another wet kiss before nodding.

It’s quiet a bit until Stiles flutters his lashes awake, Derek tilting his jaw further up in consideration. “You don’t know how badly I want to give you a good dicking, babe.”

Widened eyes and dropped jaw, “ _Derek_!” is hissed again, “We’re about to see your family, and you’re trying to rile me up!”

“It’s the truth, babe,” Derek dissents any fault, “I just want to be good to you, and it’s what you need right now.”

“You telling me that isn’t helping,” Stiles near groans, makes sure to keep space between them.

“Alright, alright,” Derek throws his hands up, “I apologize.” Finally, he turns to unstrap his bag from the back of his motorcycle.

Stiles bites his tongue on making fun of the way the duffel looks while hooked to the bike partly because it was an adequate backrest and partly because he doesn’t think they can afford much longer to bicker outside.

Derek is apparently done talking as well, slips his bag right over his shoulder and begins trekking toward the front stoop. There’s not a moment’s pause to warn Stiles, and Derek just opens the door to step in.

——

Tucked into the right corner of a plush, tawny sofa, Stiles gladly admits that trudging through his shitty Friday was well worth it. Stone blue, chenille throw pulled to his chin, nameless action film casting cool tones against the area in its proximity, lamps vanquishing shadows with yellow light. He’s cozy with his mug of hot chocolate just in reach, is keeping a lazy watch on Derek’s restless fingers that he only just escaped from, sweet with their caress against ankle bone but then sour when their tickling takes on a mind of its own.

Talia was near tears when she greeted them just after 9:00, quick to layer kisses to her son’s cheek and hug Stiles amiably before rushing off to warm them up with homemade cocoa. Alexander too was less intimidating than Stiles had worried, kind smile yet sturdy handshake.

While his mom readied late-night snacks, Derek escorted Stiles to his old room. After having showered down the hall, the younger suffered through awkwardly calling for Derek back up the stairs, requesting sleepwear that wasn’t even a thought to pack. Derek had only indulged in a few saucy remarks – just enough to color Stiles' cheeks rosy – before fitting Stiles in flannel pants and a long-sleeve thermal.

Alexander had retired to his bedroom shortly after his film ended, stayed long enough to offer his two cents regarding the baby pictures Talia managed to procure from storage. Stiles gave Derek shit for a solid twenty minutes, the older man reduced to hiding behind a throw pillow yet grumpily accepting Stiles' apologetic smiles.

Now, starburst clock hands edging towards 11:00 pm, Stiles is entranced by the aesthetic of the decoration, candles mantled beneath it. His lashes are still sticking closed, though, chatting drowned out around him.

When his eyes blink back open the candles are blown out and the t.v. is off. Talia is closing her family album that was left on the coffee table, and Stiles thinks to offer his assistance, but there’s this insistent fluttering against the arch of his foot, and – “You’re in the doghouse tonight if you don’t fuck off.”

Immediately Stiles wishes he could have clamped his mouth sooner (or maybe just have Derek fuck off, actually) so he wouldn’t have used the attitude in Talia’s presence.

But she only laughs out, “I think I’d leave that poor boy alone, honey.”

Derek splutters, “I didn’t do anything, mom,” but it’s a tone laced with tell of lying.

It’s obvious Stiles is alert, so he sits up despite his embarrassment. “’m sorry about that, Talia. Let me clean up my mess as well.”

He must not come off too capable with his hair a mess and a yawn breaking up his avowal because Talia waves him off, claims it’s an easy project as she traipses off to the kitchen.

As soon as she’s out of sight, Stiles hardens a glare toward Derek, the latter standing up to stretch before offering his hand for Stiles. Naturally, Stiles stands himself and works to fold up the blanket he used. “Stop instigating, Derek! Do you want your mother to hate me?”

A hand eases itself around Stiles and attaches to his hip as he stands straight, laying the throw over the back of the couch. “She thought it was funny, babe.”

“Get off of me, Handsy!” Stiles hisses, twists out of the older’s hold so that Talia won’t be able to accuse them of exhibitionism.

As if on cue, the woman re-enters her den. “Oh, you didn’t have to, darling,” she starts, likely referring to the folded throw.

“But I did,” he offers a half-smile, shrugs just before she goes in for a hug.

Her son receives the same affection, and they’re wished a good night before Stiles leads his way to the staircase, bones begging for a thorough night’s sleep. Just as Talia’s left, though, Derek’s wrapping his arms around Stiles' waist from behind and planting kisses to his neck.

“ _Derek_ ,” he groans, tries to worm his way out of the embrace, “We’re at your family home.”

The man lets up some, and Stiles thinks to forgive him on the basis that all of these grudges are wearing him down. After all, a man only has room for so many, and Stiles doesn’t plan on forgiving J.P. Whitlock for that time in the third grade when he ripped up Stiles’ artwork anytime soon.

But then Derek’s back at it again up the stairs, slapping at Stiles’ butt playfully.

Stiles blindly kicks out behind him, makes contact and elicits an “ _Oof_!” in time to curve on the landing and skitter up the rest of the flight. It’s definitely immature, but Derek started it, so Stiles closes the man’s bedroom door and leans against it in order to get him back.

Derek must’ve expected the counterattack, turns his doorknob slowly before warning out a “ _Stiles_.”

Ill-prepared, the younger only lasts about three seconds of withstanding the door against Derek’s full weight before he spins a 180, watches breathlessly Derek stumbling forward. Shock in the man’s expression gives way to bright eyes and a challenging smirk, head tilting slowly.

Stiles' throat is stuck on a snort, mildly terrified for his fate. Just before it looks as if Derek is going to pounce, though, Stiles does so instead, molds palms to the man’s cheeks and flattens their torsos together. “I’m sorry, I‘m sorry,” pleads Stiles as he pecks kisses over his opponent’s lips.

At worst, Stiles expects tickling, but Derek instead grips his hips tight after a moment, opens his mouth to deepen the kiss as he walks Stiles up against the red wall just beside a t.v. stand. It’s not too rough, but Stiles nevertheless gasps at Derek’s doggedness, which only abettors a hot tongue slicking over his teeth. And Stiles needs something to ground him, is at risk of floating away with the rush of it all straight to his head, so he tightens his arm over Derek’s shoulder, clasps at his nape, and bites back.

It doesn’t take long for Derek to take advantage of their position, grind against Stiles' hip.

And Stiles loves it. Loves the thick fingers massaging his lower back and the warmth of Derek’s naked chest and the knowledge that the man is so malleable in this state. But, “We can’t do this,” he breaks away, leans his head against the wall and drags one hand just below Derek’s throat in case the man needs held back.

“Christ, Stiles,” Derek responds, doesn’t do much to pull back, though, just trails his lips to the crook of Stiles' neck and slows his hips.

Breathless but demanding, “No, Der, really; it’s late and this is inappropriate.”

Derek is listening, at least, whines out and rests his forehead against Stiles' shoulder, wraps his arms around midsection. “You drive me crazy, _Słoneczko_ ,” is a hushed confession.

Gritting his teeth because it’s not as if there’s no chemistry, Stiles twists fingers in Derek’s hair and presses against the older’s hip with his opposite hand. “I know, baby, but we should sleep.” Stiles instantly regrets the pet name. He’s never used it un-ironically is the thing, and now isn’t the time to be forming habits.

One last groan. Derek pulls away, begins folding back the comforter on his bed, flicking on a bedside lamp before mindlessly exiting the room.

“ _Damnit_ ,” Stiles kicks himself, continues using the wall as support before he musters enough wherewithal to climb into bed. A bit too late he remembers at least having packed earbuds and a recent bestseller having to do with a detective in a serial murder investigation, but considering he’s too lazy to even reach his arm over the side of the bed, he imagines it won’t take long to fall asleep anyway.

Peeling his ears, Stiles can’t help but listen to Derek shut off running water, pad back down the hall. He doesn’t look at Stiles upon entering the room, flicks off the overhead light and on the fan. The boy eyes him still, watches a mechanical drop of joggers just before Derek climbs into bed and leans to switch off the lamp.

A minute passes of darkness and shallow breathing. It’s tense, though. Stiles turns on his side, can barely make out Derek’s figure. “Are you mad?” comes out smaller than anticipated, but Stiles imagines it can only add to the effect.

Derek shifts as well, sheets rustling. “No, baby. You’re right, anyway.”

Unfettered fingers trace themselves over the man’s face, mapping out his cheek and nose and mouth just to have a kiss sponged to his fingerpads. It’s so simplistically intimate, and Stiles could do with scooting closer and falling asleep in Derek’s warmth.

But Stiles turns his back instead, ultimately reaches down to haul his overnight bag up and over him to be placed as a barrier between them. “Good. No sex before marriage.”


	11. Day Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexy times starting with "After a beat"

| _Saturday_ |

The first time Stiles wakes up it’s to blink his eyes open against predawn light, the sun begging to make its presence known. And Derek is pressed along his back, Stile’s duffel likely set alight while he slept.

It’s too hot underneath the comforter, so he stretches his legs out to soak in chilled sheets, takes one arm out from under the covers only to realize that Derek had folded the heavy duvet from his side over Stiles, now has only the black sheet as protection against the raging fan.

Irrationally irritated maybe, but Stiles wants to sleep, and upon shifting his foot against Derek’s leg its revealed that the man’s skin is icy. Grumbling, Stiles sits up and resituates the covers, folds the comforter back a foot so he can slink down the bed and press his chest to Derek’s, forehead to clavicle.

It’s early and he’s shameless, hitching one of Derek’s legs over his own and lazily dropping his lids.

——

The second time Stiles wakes up it’s to lock gaze with a very small boy peeking through the cracked bedroom door. It takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the relentless sunrays filtering through the window behind him, but by the time his conscious is organizing itself the door is closed and the mystery boy has shot off.

Derek is no longer tangled with him – nor in the room – and that shouldn’t bother Stiles as much as it does.

His phone reads 9:37am, which means there’s a couple hours yet until the Hale family is meant to all be here for lunch. He thinks the fact might should ease his anxiousness, but it only fuels his frustration that Derek left him to fend for himself with mere hours to spare before he’s fed to the wolves. Literally.

Stiles tries a few deep breaths, briefly considers jumping out the window. He settles on dressing in his jeans from the night prior, slips on a green sweater and his beat up Nikes because if he stays in pajamas he might just fall back asleep.

The upstairs is clear when Stiles steps into the hallway. A door on down and to the left is open, but there’s no noise coming from it, so Stiles takes it upon himself to creep into the bathroom, skirt his eye over a toiletry bag left on the toilet and a new toothbrush laid out.

Having Derek by his side to inform him of the day’s plans would be much more efficient and less nerve-wracking than tiptoeing around, Stiles decides. He also decides to give Derek hell for disappearing without a trace.

At the top of the landing he can already smell bacon and eggs. Again there’s no chatter, so Stiles risks a few steps down the flight in order to gain a better view of the main level. The same little boy that Stiles woke up to is sat at the kitchen bar faced away.

“Hello,” Stiles utters as he rounds around the bar and into the heart of the kitchen, eyes the eggs and hash browns in skillets but figures he’ll wait for someone else to dig in first so not to be caught red-handed.

The child doesn’t even glance up, is too busy trying his damnedest to stay inside the lines of his coloring book.

Imagining crickets going off in the background of eerie silence due to the awkwardness of the situation, Stiles actually wishes _anyone_ were around to clue him in to what in the hell is going on. As it is, he walks forward to the left of a sink, folds his elbow on the counter to connect eye-level with the boy in front of him. “What’s your name?”

He glances up, stares at Stiles for a moment before commencing his activity. “James.”

“That’s a nice name.” When it becomes apparent a response won’t be offered, Stiles continues. “Do you know Derek?”

“Duh,” James drags out, more than likely rolling his eyes, “he’s my uncle.”

The boy’s articulate when he wants to be, and especially so given that he looks to be four. “Well my name is Stiles, and I’m your Uncle’s friend.”

Not listening, maybe, James huffs down at his drawing and smacks his crayon flat to the counter.

“Do you want me to help you color, buddy?” Stiles tries.

Meeting eyes with intent this time, James whimpers, “It won’t stop wiggling, Mr. Stiles.” Tears are threatening to well up, eyes large and lower lip protruding. On second thought, the boy could very well be three.

Sympathetic, and maybe because he’s not accustomed to little kid tantrums, Stiles walks around to James and extends his arms. “Come here.”

Rightfully hesitant, it takes James a moment to allow Stiles to pick him up, but once he’s off the chair Stiles deftly presumes the position, sits the boy on his lap. “Choose a color, buddy, and I’ll help you.”

At first the kid just sniffs dramatically at Stiles, and if Stiles had any doubts that the Hale family is Supernatural, they’ve all flown out the window. Eventually James must deem Stiles okay because he grabs the green crayon and hands it to Stiles.

“Nice. Green is cool.”

A loud gasp is emitted from the boy as he scrambles to turn sideways on Stiles' lap, get a better look at him. “That’s my favwite!”

Stiles can only awe under James’s cuteness, chubby cheeks and big brown eyes, thick, golden locks framing his face, mouth rounded. The speech-impeded _R_ s just completely do Stiles in.

Just before he means to respond, Talia bustles into the kitchen with another baby on her hip. “Oh, Stiles! I didn’t realize you made it up. Let me fix you some breakfast.”

“Thank you, Talia,” Stiles smiles, a bit shy with her in person.

Luckily she doesn’t take notice (or at least doesn’t mention it), rather sets the baby she has in a highchair and begins taking plates out of a cabinet. “I hope James didn’t wake you, sweetie.”

“No! I didn’t!” the little boy insists, wide-eyed for a different reason this time as he shoots his gaze between Stiles and Talia. “I just looked, I pwomise.”

Talia raises her brow at James’ obvious guilt, only says, “As long as Mr. Stiles isn’t mad.”

“He’s not, gwammy,” James actually begins to rise on his knees in Stiles' lap, voice pitching, and Stiles has to press his palm against the kid’s stomach to hold him safe. “He’s colo’ing wif me.”

“Alright,” Talia draws out, turns to Stiles, “Do you want bacon, sweetie?”

“That’d be great, actually,” Stiles answers.

As soon as Talia nods and spins around to lay cheerios in front of the other fussing baby, James turns back to face Stiles. “You’we not mad, awe you?” he tries to whisper.

“No, buddy,” Stiles hushes back, smooths his hand down the boy’s back. “Are you ready to color?”

James nods furiously with a gasp, light bulb going off in remembrance as he settles into Stiles' lap fully, back to chest.

They work on Goofy together, Stiles outlining the character’s snout green with James’ hand beneath his. When the boy insists that he can do it, Stiles lets go, and though the lines begin wobbling again, they’re actually improved from before Stiles offered assistance. James quickly begins fretting nevertheless, but as soon as Stiles commends him the boy sits up taller and draws as he pleases.

Talia, bless her heart, informs Stiles that Derek woke up earlier and went for a jog, should be getting back soon. Also that James’ mother is Derek’s oldest sister who’s still asleep, that Elliot is the baby and Laura’s as well, and that Cora and Isaac will be arriving later.

Their rough start forgotten, James refuses to leave Stiles' lap, eats there and then begs to see all of Stiles' tattoos – irregardless of the fact that he has none. Because Stiles isn’t keen on disrobing in the kitchen he promises to show James later and doodle him up one to color in the meantime.

It’s not too long after James has finished his meal and coerced Stiles into helping with the snake tattoo sketch that Derek jogs back through the door, cheeks ruby, hair windswept, joggers low and a hoodie unzipped enough to peep fuzzy chest hair.

Needless to say that it’s not the best time to have a child on his lap, but Stiles powers through by remembering that Derek left him to wake up alone. It’s only easy for the first ten seconds, James _ooh_ ing in his ear and craving attention. Caving, Stiles glances up, listens to Derek’s conversation with Talia.

“Thanks, mom; it looks great.” Indication of the food.

“Your boy and nephews have already eaten. Go clean up and I’m sure they’ll love some cuddles when you’re done.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles watches Derek finish off the last of his water bottle, throat long and veiny (which, well – _focus_ ) and plant a smooch to Elliot’s forehead before – oh, shit.

“Good morning, you two,” Derek’s stood right beside them, expectant.

“James,” Stiles acts out passive aggressively, mouth right by the boy’s ear as he’s watching him color, “Could you tell your uncle to leave us alone?”

“Hm?” James hums out, twists his torso to look at Stiles but gets distracted by Derek, evidently just only realizing he was there. “Uncle Derek!”

Stiles looks up at that, the little dude’s eyes lit up, Derek’s grin contagious, and it’s a wonder Stiles didn’t notice the heavy resemblance earlier.

“Hey, Tiger,” Derek holds his palm out for a high-five, “you’re doing brilliant there.”

Wiggling about to enthusiastically preen, James shows his manners: “Thanks! Mr. Stiles is helping me.”

Derek’s eyes flicker to Stiles' before he leans his elbows on the bar. “Well, you’re both doing great. Do you happen to know why Mr. Stiles is angry with me?”

Whipping his head back to Stiles, James is sporting a brow crinkled with confusion, eyes shiny and hands gentle on Stiles' chest as the boy turns himself to better face Stiles. “Why a’e you angwy wif Uncle Derek?”

It’s the tilt of the head and genuinely curious tone that tugs at Stiles' heart. And of course Derek would use an adorable child against him. Stiles doesn’t know if he should actually have this conversation conveyed through a babe, grazes his eyes around the kitchen to see if there’s any help, but Talia’s run off somewhere.

He tucks his chin, quietens his voice, “Well, this is my first time in this house and my first time meeting your family, so I was scared coming here. Then, I woke up this morning and your uncle was gone, so it made me worried.”

Furrow deepening, James still appears confused, but there’s a heat behind it this time as he turns back to Derek. “Why did you leave him?”

Derek doesn’t return the volley, thumbs gently at Stiles' chin to look him in the eye. “I’m sorry, _Słoneczko_ ,” he appears apologetic enough, rubs his thumb over Stiles' lower lip when the younger doesn’t pull away, “I wanted to be there when you woke up, but I lost track of time.” He breaks for a sigh, a self-depreciating laugh. “Not that that’s a good excuse. But it won’t happen again.”

Stiles works to soften his gaze, is still irritated, but Derek just looks so pitiful when repentant. “I’ll get over it,” comes out a bit rough, and Stiles clears his throat afterward.

“I’ll make it up to you later, but I really need to shower off before Mom comes back. Okay?”

A begrudgingly genuine smile tugs up the corner of Stiles' mouth. “Okay,” he hushes.

“Alright,” Derek leans forward, and Stiles prepares for a kiss when –

“No _kissing_ , Uncle Derek,” James appears scandalized, one hand against Derek’s chest and the other forearm on Stiles' clavicle.

A brow raises, the older man verges on genuinely offended. “Why can’t I kiss my boyfriend?”

“You’we not even _mated_ ,” the boy huffs and crosses his arms.

Stiles hides a snicker in thinned lips, shrugs at Derek in hopes that the man knows James wasn’t put up to this. Maybe he’s reading it wrong, but Stiles swears that Derek tenses up for and eighth of a second.

But then dark brown eyes glint mischievously, actions calculated. “Well what if I told you I’m marrying him?” Derek challenges.

It’s a joke, of course, but it makes Stiles slightly uncomfortable, reminds him of the article. And he so badly wishes he never got the assignment, never wrung himself a fool in front of this man.

“No, _I’m_ mawwying him,” James brandishes a blue crayon, is apparently already bored with the conversation as he’s begging to go back to coloring.

Leaning once again on the counter, Derek entertains the notion. “Oh, how’s that?”

“Mommy alweady said I could,” James answers simply, is back to filling in his python.

“Did she now?”

“Mhm,” James lies so easily before popping his head back up and scrambling to face Stiles again, the latter having a near fright in balancing the boy before he topples over. “He’s got a snake on his awm and that’s my _favwite_ ,” he paws over Stiles' right shoulder.

“Well he’s got a snake on his leg, and that’s _my_ favorite, so does that mean I can marry him too?”

Stiles chokes on his own spit at the innuendo, can feel his cheeks heating. Again, butterflies awaken in Stiles' stomach, but he forces them dead in order to fix his eyes on James.

The boy gives a considering look, raises a brow. “I guess so.”

“ _Whew_ ,” Derek dramatizes, wipes his forehead, “Thank goodness. I’m allowed to kiss him now, right?”

An exasperated sigh. “Only a little bit,” the boy stresses, tilts his head down to shoot his uncle a firm eye.

Under the scrutiny it’s an effort not to erupt into giggles, but Stiles manages to pucker his lips as far out as they’ll go, allows Derek to grip his jaw once more and feather brush their lips together for _one_ , _two_ –

“O _kay_ ,” James is pushing at Derek’s chest again, “it’s my tuwn now.”

Stiles knows his eyes are crinkled in his beam, hardly prepares himself in time for James to grab his cheeks and plant a wet kiss over one.

“Hey, hey,” Derek grabs at his nephew’s chin to peck his forehead, “be careful with our husband.” One more wink for Stiles and then he’s off to clean up.

James promptly goes back to the snake, persistence admirable, and Stiles glances up to meet gaze with a softly grinning Talia. He’s left to wonder when she came back in.

——

It’s a bit past 2 pm, and Stiles is stuffed full with his burger from earlier, looser from a bottle of Heineken that was passed out of Laura’s cooler as soon as Talia and Alexander left to take Brit, Cora’s dog, on a walk. James only agreed to leave Stiles behind under the prospect of treating himself at the Dollar Store, and Derek’s been all over Stiles since, finally able to freely show affection without a four-year-old breathing down his neck and wielding a pitchfork.

A grounding hand at Stiles' waist stayed put while he was introduced to two sisters, plush lips fluttered along his temple, ear, cheek every time someone felt the need to tease him about his newly-acquired three-foot shadow. Warm chest to his shoulder blades when they stood around the dining area for a hot minute after having cleared their plates, an unassumingly possessive palm cupping Stiles' thigh when everyone still at the house decided to relocate to the backyard, sun glowing on and breeze somehow steadying. With the way they’ve gravitated toward each other, Stiles couldn’t claim not to be _Derek’s_ even if he came out and confessed his corporate sins.

Up until now, that is. Now Derek, Laura, Isaac, Cora, and Stiles are sat around a porch table on the back deck, halfway through a game of Bullshit. Oh, yeah. And Derek’s creepy Uncle Peter is here.

Peter arrived halfway through lunch with a disturbing smile and beady eyes planted on Stiles. Needless to say, there were some serious Alpha posturing vibes radiating off of Derek until Talia took Peter into her office for some sort of business talk. But in those thirty minutes Stiles is sure Peter contracted cancer.

Cora isn’t doing too hot, blames it on her ‘Week 29 Pregnancy Brain.’ Laura is well-off enough despite a setback for her two turns ago. Isaac just plain sucks. Really, the game will come down to either Derek, Stiles, or Peter as the winner.

Though humble at times, Derek Hale isn’t afraid to flex his skills during a blasted game of Bullshit. (Not that Stiles should be surprised; he does host poker nights, after all.) And Stiles thought dubiously of Derek’s supposed infamous record with the game even given the chalkboard hung outside proclaiming the man’s lead with 26 games. It’s apparent now that Derek actually knows what he’s doing and has been declared Champ for a reason.

And Stiles didn’t set out with intentions of cheating his way equal to Derek’s skill, but, well. 

The man was a bit cocky in the very beginning – more so than Stiles has ever seen him. It started with Derek calling Stiles' bluff so easily and claiming ‘ _It’s all about reading people_ ’ when Stiles' dropped jaw read as perplexed. 

Afterward, Derek kept throwing jokes out like ‘ _Don’t feel bad for tapping out, baby_ and ‘ _You’re still a winner in my eyes_ ,’ but as Stiles proved to hold his own the remarks became quite a bit more challenging, taunting. Now, though, Derek’s mostly silent, concentrated.

It’s hilarious, Stiles thinks. To be fair, he _did_ get himself far enough in the game for Derek to take him seriously; he’s the Sheriff’s kid, after all, which means he ranks just under all other pastors’ sons nationally as a professional liar

Only shortly after Stiles pulled even with Derek did everyone else began signaling Stiles what cards they had. Especially Peter, who owns the second highest ranking in Bullshit history. 

Bottom line: Derek needs to be taken down a notch, and Stiles is more than happy to perform the honors.

“Two aces,” Derek states, lays his cards down and continues to study the rest of his hand.

Probability-wise it’s unlikely. Stiles has one ace in his own hand and distinctly recalls bullshitting earlier, laying one down that hasn’t gotten picked out of the pile yet. Still, Stiles glances over his cards to everyone else.

Cora – just to his left – stares back, raises a brow in question.

Stiles takes it for what it’s worth. “One two.”

Cora goes and then Isaac (who gets caught lying and has to pick up the deck). Laura has no fives, and Stiles knows it because she didn’t signal that she did a few rounds ago. It’s maybe dirty to call her on it, but he says “bullshit” with such conviction that she retorts an “Oi, fuck off!” and they all get a laugh out of it.

Well, Derek just quirks up a corner of his mouth, but that’s basically rolling on the floor laughing in Derekville! “A six,” he declares.

There’s not much to go off of given that Stiles doesn’t have any sixes, but he sees Cora tap her chin once, Isaac tug his ear twice, and Peter rub his nose. That’s all four.

With no cards in the pile it won’t matter much if Stiles calls Bullshit on Derek or not. But it’s the principle of it all: Stiles has to be seen as ruthless, cunning, intuitive, and missing out on an opportunity to do so won’t advance his case. Plus, he gets a kick out of witnessing such an incredulous Derek when the man is set straight.

It’s been a few beats too long. Derek glances up to Stiles, leaned back in his wicker chair as if trying too hard to affect casualness.

Stiles – because he’s one for dramatics when he can get away with it and even when he can’t – stares Derek down in a smolder. “Bullshit.”

“We’re home!” Alexander’s voice rings from inside the house, audible since the deck’s sliding glass door is left open.

Everyone at least jerks their attention toward the noise, Peter replying that they’re outside.

Hm. It seems Derek (and, by extension, the Hales) don’t realize that they’re the most obvious werewolves in all of New York.

Derek’s scrutiny burns Stiles' skin all the while, silent and still. Once all players are again focused, Derek flips his card over to reveal a nine. Calmly, a bit chillingly, the man interrogates, “The whole deck is in hand, so how could you possibly know that I don’t have any sixes?”

Stiles credits Derek for being suspicious. Good on him. It won’t serve Stiles well, though, so he licks his lips, tilts one side of his mouth up in hopes that Derek will think he’s using humor to deflect. He leans close, raises his voice just about a whisper. “You see, Mr. Hale, it’s all about reading people.”

There’s a bit of a commotion from inside, but Stiles doesn’t back down from Derek’s imploring gaze. He almost feels as if the man is searching his soul, irises so expressive yet unreadable.

“Mr. Stiles!” preludes pounding footsteps, James jumping in between Stiles and Derek with a pumping chest and sparkling eyes. “Look!”

Stiles hadn’t realized how close he and Derek had leaned toward each other, but James’ theatrics likely mean that the boy _did_ take note, and Stiles has to laugh at the kid’s devotion to halting his and Derek’s relationship. “What’ve you got now?” Stiles lifts up the bouncing child to share the chair.

“Gwammy said we can colow ouw haiw _gween_!” is a bit of a squeal, toothy beam and reaching hands that find themselves tugging in Stiles' hair.

A brow spiking automatically in bewilderment, Stiles laughs into, “Yeah? Sounds awesome.”

Laura, though, is quick to interject in her authoritative tone, “Excuse me, mister, but what are you going on about, and where are my kisses?”

Taken aback maybe, possibly too excited to have observed in his surroundings properly, James whips his head around to his mother, is a lot less afire, “Can we colow ouw haiw, please? I love you.”

As if on cue, Talia comes outside as well, bitten lip. “Oh, dear. You haven’t gotten me in trouble, have you, James?”

The boy seems to curl inward on himself, shielding blows after being shot down twice in a row. And Stiles hugs him tighter in hopes that it’s a comfort. “But you said–“

“What’s this about hair color?” Laura questions her mother, not meanly but rather suspiciously.

“Oh! It’s this washable hair spray your boy was begging for,” she chuckles, wipes her hands on her jeans and pulls out a chair from the corner of the deck to sit in, “Yes, should come out in the rinse.”

“I don’t know…” Laura trails off, rightfully skeptical of such vagueness.

“Come on,” Peter goads, wrist flicking up from where it’s laid on the back of Laura’s chair, ”You don’t want to be the uncool mom, do you?”

“Ooh,” Isaac adds obnoxiously, “Lyds is coming for your crown, Laur!”

James may be likely to burst into tears at any given second, and, clinically, Stiles spectacles at the emotional spectrum of such small children – its simplicity in its predictability and complexity in its heightening with the tiniest blip. Personably, Stiles doesn’t think he’ll like to see the kid’s wobbling lip and red cheeks and broken heart, so he rubs his hand around James’ back and speaks up: “I think I’ve seen the stuff, Laura. Non-toxic and all that. I could at least try it out.”

The little one wraps his arms around Stiles' neck, tucks into his neck to peek at his mother, and Stiles wonders if the boy realizes he’s using his cuteness to get his way or merely clinging to Stiles for succor. “Please, mommy,” is a watery plea.

Slanted eyes, a moment’s consideration. “I’ll _think_ about it, James, and I’ll have to ask mommy too. But you better be on your best behavior,” Laura acquiesces.

“Yes, ma’am,” James replies, timid in his hushed volume and want for close connection.

Alexander makes his way outside as well, a whimpering Elliot being handed off to his mom. “He’s trying for his afternoon nap early, I suppose.”

“Let’s see if we can hold it off a bit still,” Laura replies, bounces the tot who appears soothed with a pacifier in his mouth and his mom’s touch.

“Oh, look at those baby blues,” Stiles utters admirance, a bit entranced by their vibrancy against dewy tears and dark hair.

“Hey, um,” James leans back to meet Stiles' gaze, “what colow awe my eyes?” He widens them a bit. Not yet a tiger as Derek had claimed earlier, James is just a cub in need of reassurance.

And Stiles recounts Talia’s pitched giggle from the night prior when she paraded a photo of young Derek in a lion costume – her _little lion_. It only brings to mind more wonders surrounding the man he’s with, and at the forefront is whether Derek’s the same as his oldest nephew, seemingly titanium but so malleable in reality.

It’s a winding road to go down, so Stiles tries to clear his head, chucks James’ chin lightly. “You’ve got brown eyes, babe, and they’re gorgeous.” A peck to the forehead because it’s what he can offer.

Stiles' attention is piqued by an ankle hooking his own, Derek’s gentle gaze on his interaction with James. The two share a few seconds, neither trying to communicate anything dire, maybe just ‘ _I’m here_ ’ and ‘ _You’re something I could spend the rest of my life learning_.’

But maybe Stiles is stretching it.

“Ma, Pops?” The older man calls his parents, “We’re just finishing up a round of BS.”

“Oh, Derek,” his mum tantalizes, “I don’t know if I much care too see you outplay these poor people.”

“Actually,” Cora sits up with a smirk, heavily involved as she is, “Stiles is giving our boy a run for his money.”

“Oh is he?” Talia bubbles out a laugh just as Alexander snickers, surprisingly unsurprised or just good at dveiling it, “Now this I’ve got to see.”

“Why does everyone have to gang up on me?” Derek looks around, one brow raised in mock-rage.

Despite the joking overtone, Stiles finds himself wanting to nuzzles the man’s scruffy cheek, reassure him that they’re not out to get him. Except they kind of are. Stiles nudges his foot in lieu.

“Enough of that, little bro,” Laura declares, “Now who’s turn is it? Peter?”

“Nah, it’s still mine,” Stiles speaks up, splays his fingers on James’ back while he redistributes their body weight. “Where were we?”

“Sevens,” Derek supplies with a renewed spirit, is no longer in his funk from just the round before.

Stiles pinwheels his cards from where they’d been laid face-down on the table, is lucky enough to have a seven, briefly entertains the thought of passing it off as two cards. He can feel Derek watching him, though, so he plays it safe. “You wanna help me?” he asks the wiggle worm in his lap.

James’ mood perks up significantly when he’s allowed to eye the cards and pick out the seven of hearts, gasp audible when he finds it but lip ensnared in his teeth afterward as if he’ll be able to play his competitors.

“Well, what’ve you got to say to that?” Alexander prompts gruffly from the sidelines.

It’s charming the way everyone around the table automatically puts on their figurative thinking caps, scrunching noses and tilted heads. Isaac even mimes stroking a beard, which has James giggling into Stiles' shoulder so he doesn’t blow his own version of a poker face.

Again, Stiles wonders if Derek, being the only boy, had his family wrapped around his pudgy little finger at the age of four, wonders if Derek had as much zest or if he was more subdued.

The man certainly is audacious now, at least, and it’s shown when his side-eyes are legitimately leery of James and Stiles. As if Stiles has trained the young boy to react so obviously in order to purposely throw Derek off their case. (Which he would definitely do if they had more time and he thought James was capable of being anything but genuine.)

“Can I help you, sugar pie?” Stiles grins condescendingly politely at Derek, a slight quirk to his brow so that Derek knows he’s mostly ribbing.

Derek is still unsure as he shakes his head, but there’s a half-smile. “You don’t fight fair.”

Unsafe is what one would label it the fact that all else goes to hell half the time Stiles' eyes connect with Derek’s. Something always teases itself in the depths of swirling cinnamon that Stiles desires to find, capture, hold. And Stiles is able to admit in the moment, so blithe, that Derek is something he knows he won’t be able to quit easily.

As it is, Stiles has decided to allow himself enjoyment on their trip, so he leans to his right and draws the man in with batting lashes in order to at least pretend privacy. Lips concealed from view as they skim Derek’s cheekbone, Stiles utters, “You know you like when I play dirty.”

A nearly imperceptible hiss sounds right beside Stiles' ear, and then Derek’s cheek brushes his as if to pull them face-to-face once more.

“You can’t kiss him, Uncle Derek, because he’s on _my_ team,” James frets, is nearly hostile in the abrupt tugging on Stiles' shirt just to separate the two.

“James!” Laura barks from the opposite end of the table, eyes locked on the little boy and brows heavy, no amusement. “You’re _not_ supposed to be rough.”

Guilt eats away at Stiles' stomach, is climbing its way throughout his chest because it’s his own fault for upsetting the boy when he was already in a fragile state.

Misted eyes are wide, mouth in a grimace but lower lip stuck out as if the boy is straddling the line between indignant and woeful. “But they’we not playing wight!” is a shaky whine.

“There are no excuses for being mean, son, and you know that.” Unwavering, stern gaze, but the tone is a bit softer.

Mechanical, James turns to Derek and mutters, “I’m sowwy you awen’t playing wight,” doesn’t look him in the eye. He turns slightly to Stiles, loosens his fist of hunter green cotton, “and I’m sowwy I pulled you.”

It’s petulant and very likely deserves a time out, but Derek is gentle in his response. “I forgive you, buddy. I’m sorry that I hurt your feelings. It wasn’t on purpose, and we’ll try not to do it again.” A bulky knuckle wipes over James’ cheek to stop any tears before they fall.

“Okay, can we play again?” James looks to his mother, suddenly much chipper even with contrite, drooping eyes.

Again, Stiles can’t help but question if the child is purposely manipulating his persona in order to obtain desired results. Either way it’s working, because after Laura throws one last look to communicate ‘ _We’ll discuss this again_ ’ and Cora claims an eight, Stiles delivers his apologies to James’ plump cheek in drawn kisses and a tight hold.

By the time it’s back around to Derek, Stiles can’t even say what number they’re supposed to be on, has been too wrapped up in his own frustrations. Namely the fact that his presence has caused James to get carried away and thereby more easily scolded on more than one occasion.

“I’ve got a King,” Derek announces and places a card face-down on the pile accordingly.

Laura scratches her nose, Peter taps his forefinger against the edge of the table, and Isaac tugs on his ear.

Stiles doesn’t have one, but at this point he’s a bit irritated at continuing the game. Fruitlessly, Stiles turns his attention to Derek’s face in hopes of getting a read on the man’s thoughts.

Derek is already jerking his eyes around the table, though, brow scrunched.

And James, perceptible when he chooses to be, has created a rhythm of scratching his nose, beating the table, and tugging on his ears like a monkey, wiggles in his seat as well since he seems to be bored of the game.

It’s a bit anticlimactic for Stiles when Derek discovers the truth. Everyone else erupts into howls of laughter, Laura clutching her stomach in glee – a direct contrast to Talia, who appears vaguely disapproving even though her crinkled eyes tell a different story.

There’s no heat behind Derek’s appalled expression when it falls on Stiles, jaw dropped as he tosses his cards on the table. It’s a simple, “I cannot believe you all almost pulled that over on me,” that’s leeway for a huff of laughter, head shaking as if to clear up the reality, “and I call bullshit!”

Stiles instantaneous response is to die laughing, and everyone else jumps in.

But then Stiles has a thought, and It’s a bit as if Stiles is watching the action unfold from behind a glass door, Cora’s “lowest Bullshit score in years!” muted as is the hilarity of the situation.

Already down on himself at having caused James trouble, Stiles isn’t able to revel in his practically successful scheme. Between the bothered child on his knee and the good-natured laughter from Derek himself, Stiles wonders how the man would react if he were to find out about the article.

——

Stiles hides himself away in the bathroom as soon as he can get back inside after the game. The water that he splashes on his face does little to freshen his mood, but it’s an attempt, and he’ll tip himself a point for trying.

On the way back downstairs Cora, Isaac, and Laura are huddled by the door with purses over their shoulders, and their query about Stiles joining them for mini golf is cheerful enough to have him considering it, but then Derek rounds the corner with an “Oh, are you going to cheat at that too?”

It’s joking and quite harmless, but Stiles' stomach knots anyway. Another set-back in Derek’s life that Stiles caused. Another story that won’t be much funnier in hindsight.

Alexander propositions Derek to help with a project in the garage shortly after Laura, Isaac, and Cora leave for their afternoon golf session and then shopping, so Stiles makes himself at home on the den floor, watches Monsters Inc. with the little ones while Talia reads in her armchair, presence a balm to Stiles' frazzled nerves.

She seems so sweet and unassuming, but there’s this constant emanation of _power_ that followers her around, and Stiles can’t help imagining what it would be like to have Alpha Talia Hale’s wrath come down on you.

The hushed, awkward five minute conversation Alexander holds privately with Stiles in the kitchen is something Stiles tries not to dwell on. Not because Alexander’s version of ‘ _If You Hurt Him…_ ’ is demeaning. Rather because it’s endearing, and Stiles knows the only outcome of his and Derek’s situation will be just as Alexander warns him against.

If Stiles was at all considering coming clean to Derek there’s no chance now. Derek deserves the best, truly, and Stiles' belief is reinforced that it would hurt Derek more to learn the truth than to go on thinking he escaped from someone a bit too wacky.

Afterward, Stiles flashes a tight smile toward Talia and plops himself back on the pale yellow blanket that stands as the babies’ designated play area. James crawls into Stiles' lap to cuddle as the movie continues with Boo being stuck in the monster world, and Elliot’s burst of giggles every time Stiles pokes his belly is a rather a nice stress reliever.

While Elliot falls into a late nap as the movie ends, James only behaves more rambunctiously, goes on and on about Monsters Inc. and begs to watch Monsters University. Stiles thinks to suggest watching Tarzan, but the movie would only remind him of Scott, which would have him reeling over when he last saw his best friend – during couples’ therapy.

Instead, Stiles texts Laura about testing out the temporary hair color on himself for James to see and then takes them outside to do so. The process is simple enough: shake the can, spray in desired location. And James is thrilled beyond belief, veneration in honeyed eyes as he begs to be held just so he can twist his fingers in Stiles' emerald green locks.

Back inside, Derek, Alexander, and Talia have congregated in the kitchen, and they wave him over. They all have turns complimenting his hair, and even though it’s more for James’ sake, Stiles can’t help but soften under the amicable atmosphere.

Derek seems to have fallen victim to the ambiance as well, lets his eyes linger on Stiles even as his mom asks his opinion on what to do for dinner. Or maybe he has been paying attention after all, irises a rich seafoam framed by thick, lazy lashes. “You can call in whatever you like, Mom. I’d like to take my boyfriend out tonight.”

——

The sun is playing peek-a-boo behind clouds, low to the east. What was once a pure, sky blue background now favors a hazy silver, but Stiles thinks that marigold might make its appearance soon enough. Begging on drizzly and chilly, one of Stiles' better options is huddling under Derek’s arm while they stroll their way back to the end of the boardwalk, pizza in their hands (that Stiles had to put up a fight to pay for) and eyes for aesthetic appreciating the boardwalk’s shops.

They haven’t made too much conversation since leaving Derek’s parent’s house at 5:30 pm nor touched as much as they’re prone to do, Derek’s arm around his shoulder the most contact shared all evening. It’s by Stiles' own design more than likely, Derek so adept in reading his desires. Because what Stiles has badly needed is time for himself to rejuvenate in mind, body, spirit since he hasn’t gotten any alone time since meeting Derek, really. And as if the man hasn’t proven perfect a dozen fold, he matches and complements Stiles' demeanors so well, which has made it so easy to rest in the simple, comfortable quietude between them.

The further toward Derek’s parked motorcycle they get the sparser the crowd. With a lack of buildings and body heat, Stiles feels rather attacked by the ocean’s breeze, and he’s really regretting ever changing into a thin t-shirt from his thick sweater.

“How’s your weekend been so far?” Derek prompts while they’re still a few minutes from the bike, murmurs as he veers them toward a trash can that they can throw their nondescript paper plates in.

It’s a gentle coax, and Stiles knows he can pull away from it if he wants, but. Once his trash is dealt with his fingers encircle Derek’s wrist that dangles by his pec. “Really good. Although I feel like I should apologize for our card game.” It’s nearly mumbled, and Stiles thinks he barely covered the undertone of supplication.

Derek’s warm fingers idly tease against Stiles' after his wrist slips from their hold. “It’s kind of funny, actually. Can’t believe you guys nearly got away with that scheme.” An easy timbre, a beat. “Although I must say I’m pleased with myself for catching on when I was so outnumbered.”

A huffed out groan from Stiles isn’t practiced, but he’s not ashamed of it either. Derek’s forgiveness is unspoken, and it takes most of the weight from Stiles' shoulders. “If I’d have known your head would only grow bigger in the aftermath then I wouldn’t have done it, Mr. Hale.” He hip-checks the man but interlocks their fingers to make sure the other doesn’t go far. “And you only realized what was going on when your four-year-old nephew accidentally sold us out. The more people in on it only enhanced the probability of you noticing our signs, besides.”

Not fifty yards from the bike, seagulls capturing Stiles' eye as they soar overhead, stark white against heavying, pewter clouds.

“You think I’ve got a big head?” is what Derek picks out of the blurb, tone not offended more than intrigued.

Stiles hums in working to phrase. “No. You’re aware of your strengths and bounce between humble and assured, which is incredibly sexy, by the way,” he asides playfully to tone down his regard, nudges fuller to Derek’s right side. “But you were downright cocky during Bullshit to where it was infuriating, so I decided to bring you back down to earth.”

The man doesn’t respond right away, and Stiles worries for a second that Derek’s ruminating on the negative portion of his commentary. Soon after, though, “Let me take you for a ride on Antonio.”

——

Stiles doesn’t know how he managed going his whole life without a motorcycle. It’s the closest thing to _freedom_ he thinks he’s ever felt, but he’s still in control, which is the most liberating, exhilarating part.

Derek had been a patient teacher as he made sure Stiles knew the clutch, helped adjust the mirrors and practice the turn signal. And he’d remained professional even once Stiles had grown impatient, staving off his instructor’s motorcycle anatomy quiz to moan out a _Mr. Hale_ every time the man’s ear ventured close enough.

Now, slowing from busy roads into residential areas, Stiles is still just as pleased with his experience on the bike, local stores and neighborhood parks much more welcoming than the darkness of a subway and more intimate than if he were to share the view with a horde of strangers on a city bus.

Really, the scenery makes him long for _home_ , though. For Beacon Hills and his parents – as boring and suffocating as they both may seem at times. Beacon Hills and Staten Island are alike in that they both have a bad rep as compared to their surrounding locations, and once Stiles has fallen into that line of thinking he can’t stop comparing the two places, imagining himself on Derek’s motorcycle in his own neighborhood, greeting his jaded high school teachers and overly nosy neighbors.

It’s sprinkling now on top of the harsh winds, and Stiles is regretting further by the minute not taking up Derek’s offer of buying him a souvenir jacket from one of the boardwalk shops, thinks he could deal with the tackiness of it now if it meant providing warmth. Instead he burrows further into Derek’s firm chest, relishes the warm palms atop his thighs as the man provides directions back to the house.

(And maybe it’s not just about body heat. In this moment, to himself, as vulnerable as Stiles has made himself in his own head, he admits that there’s something about having a familiar body to curl into. And even more to knowing the soul within the body.)

——

Naturally, Talia makes a fuss over them when they arrive home. She’s laid thick towels on the foyer floor for them to step onto and identical ones on a decorative table for them to wrap up in after tossing their soaked clothes into a trash bag.

They hadn’t expected a downpour, but she had, apparently.

Stiles is too worried about his teeth chattering out of his mouth to play at provocative or even fall into shy while he strips nude beside the man he’s been seeing for not two weeks.

And Derek – _bless him_ – stands for a bit with his dick out to rub over Stiles' arm with the towel rather than warm himself up. “Shower?”

Stiles nods in reply, directs his gaze elsewhere from Derek’s sweet ass as the man capes himself in his own towel.

Everyone else is still out on the town, apparently, and Talia slips out onto the back porch to sit with Peter and Alexander.

Once up and ushered into the bathroom, Stiles seats himself on the toilet, state of mind still nostalgic and chest aching heavier the longer he envisions how the night would be going with his parents. Their worn, paneled home would surely be a lot quieter with the absence of Stiles, but only just so. His parents always make up for the lack of noise by carrying on conversation no matter how far apart they are in the house, perhaps an oldies radio station bumping.

“Stiles?” cuts through the air, the younger only realizing Derek had been keeping up a steady stream of blabbering in the silent wake after his question.

“Hm?” He hums, lids blinking lingeringly as he tilts his head to meet the man’s gaze.

Derek’s expression morphs softly from curious to concerned, and Stiles thinks that maybe Derek’s eyes – warm caramel, pine green in reflected light – expose his soul more explicitly than the older would prefer. “You alright?”

Stiles studies his gaze on the fold of his fingers. Groomed, slender, pale. He doesn’t think it’s safe to let known something so close to his heart even if it’s for Derek, someone who might sympathize since his parents live a good two hour’s commute away. Still, words are bubbling up in his throat. He shakes his head to keep them down.

Measured movement has Derek squatting in front of Stiles, brown terry cloth now around his waist. Murmured, “Talk to me, _Słoneczko_ ,” inflection edging on worried as fingers – rough, thick, tanned – curl under Stiles' jaw.

It’s vaguely amusing witnessing Derek kneel in his de facto skirt, slit showing off a whole of one leg from tender, pale inner thigh to – well – _cute_ foot. Stiles opts to rest a palm just above bare knee, craves the strength and steadiness that runs bone deep. Heart pulsing, “I miss home,” verges a whisper.

Derek inches closer and settles his right hand on Stiles' thigh. Opposite fingers tickle their way across a tucked jaw, cup the younger’s neck. “Do you want to talk about it?”

At other times Stiles might find Derek’s genteel bolstering, but in his current disarray the solace of Derek’s being wrenches at Stiles' heart further, because he has to question how it’s possible to remain aloof when such a man is begging to crack him open even despite the mess that’s already been seen.

A moment passes as Stiles fails to abate his inner turmoil, and his watery laugh is late enough in timing to be considered odd, but utterance nevertheless floods off of Stiles' tongue like a storm breaking from angry clouds: “There’s not much to say, but,” he pauses, thinks he won’t be making much sense. And, _shit_ , tears are stinging at the corner of his eyes. “I’ve always wanted to move here. Applying to NYU was kind of a fluke since I had good grades but was never too involved in extra shit. And then when I got the acceptance letter I didn’t ever think I’d end up in the city because tuition isn’t cheap, y’know? But my parents wanted it for me, and I just couldn’t let them down.”

When his mouth finally closes Stiles can’t help feeling a bit foolish, smudges the back of his hand across his eyes more to hide than wipe actual tears. The words register as too ungrateful, though, so he tries to amend. “And it’s nice here, of course; it’s been an amazing experience, and I’ve made the best friends, but.”

Hand on Stiles' neck rubbing, “From what I’ve gathered it sounds like your parents love you a lot, only want the best for you,” Derek soothes. “It’s only makes sense to miss them.”

Stiles nods. He realizes this, knows it intimately. “‘M sorry, Derek,” he tries to sober up, huffs a depreciating laugh, “I‘m not normally this worked up, but I haven’t seen them in a year – not since Christmas, at least – and being here just makes me think of going back.”

“No, I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Derek expresses, tone almost that of a worried puppy, but Stiles doesn’t want to compare features. “If I’d have known coming here would upset you, then –”

“No,” Stiles is adamant, finally leans into Derek’s palm and reaches his free hand to the man’s cheek. As expected, Derek’s brows droop along with his mouth, and Stiles softens his tone in accordance. “It’s wonderful here. It’s beautiful, and your family is amazing, and, just – the whole vibe from this place.” He’s stumbling, can’t explain himself. “I love it here, Der. And you’re so good to me.”

There aren’t words that Derek tries to continue with, and Stiles is glad that they’re even-matched in that department at least. Instead, with olive eyes still wide and imploring, Derek chooses to tilt his face upward, draw out an exhale and nudge the slightest of kisses over Stiles' lips.

Given that Stiles is a professional journalist it’s maybe a bit disconcerting how often he’s at a loss for words when around Derek. But, then again, what they lack in intelligible phrases they make up for with pressing fingers and heavy gazes. And it’s a language Stiles is willing to grow. So he doesn’t fret over his breath hitching into Derek’s mouth, closes his eyes and molds their lips together for the heat, the intensity he currently craves.

After a beat, Stiles is dimly aware of his towel slipping gradually past his shoulders, doesn’t think it an issue with Derek’s tongue rousing and stroking against his own until the cover-up is drooped over the back of the toilet and Derek’s teasing fingers freeze over naked thigh before the older jerks away completely.

“Uh,” Derek stutters out, brow high and bottom lip cherried between his teeth.

Hazy as he is, Stiles' immediate reaction to the reduction of warm skin is a needy whine of confusion, but then he falls upon the fact that Article Stiles has been insisting on abstinence. The realization is equivalent to if he had been spending the day snug in bed, summoned from the depths of his favorite book only by remembering a looming deadline. Partially because of his aggravation, Stiles postpones thoroughly mauling his options of progression over, and his rationale is thrown back seat so greedy fingers can grab at Derek’s shoulder. “Please, Der. It’s okay.”

“Stiles…” the man trails off, skeptical.

The younger’s emotional state is paradoxical, annoyed at Derek’s wariness yet endeared that the man is so carefully thoughtful. It makes Stiles' heart thud heavily, and, well. Lying to himself further is pointless – even detrimental to his health. So Stiles practices over in his head the truth that he likes Derek.

It’s such a simple thought, really, in theory, but it’s grossly painful to admit in actuality, and Stiles knows it’s because he’s spent his time viciously caging away the notion. But as ‘ _the truth will set you free_ ’ and all that bullshit goes, the longer Stiles lets it rest in the open the less scary it becomes.

Scratch that: the truth is still frightening. But the quirk in his nerves is less paranoid and more nervous, and he’s willing to bet that between the two of them Derek would be much more considerate of Stiles' heart than he has been himself up to this point.

Butterflies, butterflies, butterflies. There’s a laugh in Stiles' belly that is bubbling its way up, giddiness in a pressing grin. “It’s alright,” Stiles assures in a timid voice. He palms over Derek’s chest until he’s ready to combat his nerves to look the other in the eye. “I want you.”

Searching gaze, bated breath. Absurdly, Stiles' psyche chooses the pause to send his stomach plummeting. But he must read as stable and genuine because a kiss is planted on his forehead, Derek claiming that he’ll be right back before exiting the bathroom.

While on a roll, Stiles plays with another idea that he’s suppressed long enough, pride and fear and even the love of a challenge having all the time been in the way. And he decides indefinitely that he won’t be completing the article.

The words repeat over in his head, and a tightness in his chest he’s grown so accustomed to loosens. Again he says it, and. It’s _so_ delivering.

Derek’s back before Stiles can try vocalization, but it doesn’t matter, because landing his eyes on Derek and considering the notion of being able to give back to the man – free of entanglements – puts more toward solidifying the decision than even a raggedy signature would.

The younger rises without prompt, whines out a “ _Der_ ” before he wraps his arms around the man’s neck, slots their lips together once more because he _can_ , can allow himself to bask in the unspoken promises that tease themselves when Derek palms his back closer and sucks at his tongue.

A nip to Stiles' lip preludes Derek pulling away, though. “What’s got you so excited, _Słoneczko_?” a smirk twists Derek’s spit-slick lips, but any smugness falls flat in that his tone is gentle, wondering.

There’s a stirring in Stiles' groin already, and his hips stutter forward to test the yield of Derek’s towel, one hand skittering down pecs to loosen its tie. “Mm, you,” comes out playful, but an underlying urgency is present.

“Yeah?” the older indulges, fingertips trailing Stiles' spine as he noses closer, bites at the pillow of Stiles' lower lip. Response isn’t allotted, though, as Derek snakes his tongue over any soreness, sucks lightly with palms venturing downward, reclaiming the territory that he familiarized himself with when they first became intimate. One last lazy kiss, foreheads close. “Let me take care of you.”

The butterflies have simmered down at the coaxing of Derek’s easy demeanor, soft touch, and Stiles allows himself to dip his toes into a feeling that will likely never lack in the terror it drags with it. He sinks into the hold on his waist, grazes his knuckles along scruffy cheek, drops his lashes as he soaks in Derek’s thumping heartbeat. “Alright.”

The older’s next exhale is staggered, light amusement coloring his demeanor. There’s no reply as Derek walks them backward toward the shower, though, just tapping fingers and cheeks nudging together. High-pressure pelts Stiles' back a few moments in solitude while Derek grabs at something on the counter, opens a cabinet to pull out more towels.

Although Derek is casual about it upon stepping onto the penny tile floor of the shower, there aren’t many ways a bottle of lube can remain inconspicuous.

“I don't know how to feel about you being so prepared,” Stiles snakes his arms over Derek’s shoulders to pull him under the spray of water. “Bold or simply resourceful?”

A faint blush colors Derek’s cheeks, Stiles dismissing acquiescence of the hot water being at fault when Derek ducks his chin. “Hopeful, mostly.”

Stiles chooses not to tease Derek further, reaches for his blue loofa and Derek’s citrus body wash. And the time passes like that, both men giggling with shy smiles that turn coy, fingers gaining courage as they lather each other up. Stiles admittedly spends a healthy amount of time scratching over course chest hair, Derek more helpful to actually clean them off until he’s distracted by puckering lips and the round of Stiles' butt.

With just a few kisses in the younger is successful at fondling over Derek’s prick, picking up the pace of their night. It’s mostly soft, and Stiles loves it – loves the feeling of a dick hardening against his palm, loves the heat and the extra foreskin, and –. There’s an overwhelming urge to fall to his knees, swallow Derek whole, and worship his cock.

The desire is made known in his pitchy whine and a “Please,” brows furrowing to suck harder at Derek’s tongue.

Derek, though, denies Stiles' request as he pushes inky hair out of the younger’s eyes with the back of a soapy hand. “Not right now, sweetheart. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“Der,” Stiles beseeches, frown deepening and fingers flexing in effort to keep a grip on Derek’s slippery skin.

“No, baby,” the man coos, steps backward and further under the water flow to derail Stiles' attempts at touch. “Naughty boys don't get treats.”

It’s a shock to Stiles still the game they play at. Even if he should be expectant of it now, he doesn’t think he’ll ever grow immune. So he swallows a gasp, a needy whimper strangled in his vocal cords. “‘M not bad.”

“No,” Derek concedes, crooks his forefinger under the younger’s chin as if he knows the position makes himself psychologically dominant, that Stiles is seconds away from tucking into his neck, “but you were _acting_ bad today. I’m sure you’ll recall.”

Stiles is on a downhill into subspace, and he's able to realize it. A state where his protective layer of skin is thin as air and Derek is able to crack open his ribcage, hold his heart hostage in a sure palm. Even more disturbing is the fact that Stiles _craves_ this feeling. The peace that washes over him after he's given himself so fully to someone who aims to please his best interests. The hypothetical process is terrifying, but in practice Stiles has found that whatever part of his conscious responsible yearns to bend to Derek’s will.

That being said, it’s almost painful in his current state to admit he had purposely sought to aggravate Derek; shame is such a suffocating emotion, cloying, but Stiles doesn't know quite how to decimate it. ”I’m sorry,” comes out a choked cry even as Stiles tries his best to hold composure.

“And what are you sorry for?” wet palms mold to the hinge of Stiles' jaw, fingertips smoothing over the younger’s neck and the tender hollow behind his ears.

Derek’s hold is balming to Stiles' worries, and the latter allows his eyes to flutter closed as Derek’s thumb sweeps under his eyes, over his cheekbones, fans ever-so-gently over his lashes. “Um…” deep breath to stimulate brain activity, “For being rude and catalyzing everyone’s cheating you out of a win in Bullshit.”

The older actually huffs a laugh, lips pulling into a miniscule smile. “I understand your attitude this morning; it was mainly my fault for inconveniencing you, so I forgive you for that.” Derek brushes a sweet kiss over Stiles' right eyelid, pulls back to continue: “And I realize that you were just trying to have some fun this afternoon. But –” he breaks off, tugs his bottom lip between his teeth as brows sink. “Well, we can discuss it later if you want. For now, I want you to know that you’re forgiven and that I’m not angry or hurt.”

Stiles leans into the twin kiss on his left eyelid, is too enveloped at first with wondering how Derek knew to give him just the right type of reassurance, basking in the relief coursing through his veins to realize that the man pulled completely away, is now standing with his backside showing as he shampoos his hair.

A bit confused, the younger makes most of the moment of privacy by giving a cursory swipe with his loofa between his cheeks where Derek’s hands failed to check. After the moment has passed, though, Stiles' subconscious calls to attention how Derek had obviously been more bothered by the prior game of cards than at first he’d let on, biting his tongue on a confession.

Worry threatens to bubble beneath Stiles' skin, but Derek had forgiven him, and his eyes read genuine. And Stiles is confident that if Derek wanted to share his troubles immediately he would have, so the younger doesn’t push. Still, Stiles wants to communicate his support and gratitude towards the man, so he steps forward, runs his hands over Derek’s shoulders, kisses just below the top knob of his spine and between shoulder blades.

That intimate position runs its course, Derek turning around not a minute later to pull Stiles back under the spray to shampoo the boy’s longer hair, finish cleaning them up. It’s all playful yet sensual, both men verging toward dirty the more daring their fingertips become on each other’s skin.

 _Finally_ Stiles' back hits the dark stone shower walls, cool texture a heavenly contrast to the steamed air, hot water, and heated palms. A breathy gasp pitches its way from Stiles, and he can’t even be ashamed because Derek’s chest rumbles with a growl.

His dick has been half-interested since being able view Derek’s torso, but with the teasing nips to his pulse point and tanned skin to scratch at, Stiles finds himself kicking to swell up.

Derek responds seamlessly, catches one thigh between the younger’s and digs his fingers into Stiles' hip to grind their cocks together, against stomachs.

“God, I love your sounds,” Derek praises, breathing strained as he undulates his hips harsher in effort to elicit more moans. “Can you turn around for me, S?”

Focused on his immediate pleasure and not the tenfold yet to come, Stiles is loath to distance himself from the delicious friction on his throbbing prick. As soon as Derek lands a light smack to his ass cheek, though, Stiles chokes off a whine and arches into Derek’s hands, finds his own teeth snagging his lower lip so roughly that he fears the spill of blood.

“Shit,” Derek drags out, tone throaty and slowed, “You need it, baby, don’t you?” While waiting for a response – or maybe expecting only the pathetic grunt Stiles gives – he squeezes at the ass presented to him, spreads the cheeks apart and back together. It’s almost a whisper when Derek next speaks, lips brushing Stiles’ ear: “I would bend you over my knee in a heartbeat, _Słoneczko_. I would. Know how well it calms you, how much you love it.”

“Der,” is a breathless acknowledgement, Stiles' belly fluttering at the prospect. The man has ventured into these kinks before, and Stiles had enjoyed it, of course. But he’s jolted with how much his body has come to crave it. One hit has made an addict out of him.

“Can I lick you out?” Derek’s fingers dig into Stiles harder, a groan tumulting out of the man’s throat as he spreads Stiles' cheeks apart again. A kiss is smothered to Stiles' shoulder – possibly an effort by Derek to calm himself.

And on any other day Stiles might beg for such, but, well – “I don’t think – I mean, I _do_ clean myself regularly, but,” comes out as a squeak, Stiles shifting his hands over the stone wall in front of him, chagrin edging it’s way present.

“Hey,” the older soothes, eases his hands from Stiles' backside to latch onto hips, another gentler kiss pressed to Stiles' shoulder. “If you’re worried about how you taste, then,” he cuts off and shifts closer to Stiles, a strangled sound as if he’s frustrated, “I know sweat and musk, babe. I know people don’t taste like candy, and I like that. I’m attracted to guys for a reason: their headiness gets me going.”

It’s not pressuring, and Stiles is thankful for that. Still, though, “Just – maybe not tonight, Der, okay?” he sighs out before reaching his arm over his shoulder to cup the other’s neck.

“That’s fine, sweetheart. Do you want my fingers?”

“Please,” Stiles relaxes, twists his head to graze his lips over Derek’s jaw before straightening himself back up and bracing his weight against the shower wall.

“Mm. Polite,” Derek praises, tone hinting at a smirk, but Stiles doesn’t look, and Derek pulls back anyway. Not thirty seconds pass before a heavy hand is returned to Stiles' waist. “This will be a bit cold.”

Stiles wiggles his hips slightly in encouragement, moans out lowly when Derek’s index taps over his hole, pushes inside, slick and cool with lube. “Mm. Feels good.”

“Yeah?” Derek queries, uses his thumb and pinkie to better expose the younger boy’s hole.

“Yeah,” Stiles confirms in a soft sigh. His eyes flutter shut, and his arms beg for him to rest his chest against the wall. 

One finger isn't a stretch – especially since Derek fucked him open thoroughly not a week ago – but it doesn't do much to satiate Stiles' urges. “Der, please; I want more.”

“Be patient, _Słoneczko_ ,” Derek retorts, “I don't want to hurt you.”

The shower’s steam has obviously gotten to Stiles, and Derek’s presence serves not only to heighten his emotional state but his libido as well. Which is the explanation Stiles gives himself in order to allow his sinking lower into subspace.

“I _need_ it, Daddy. Feel so empty, and I need you,” is slurred frustration and desire.

Derek’s probing finger slows its pace, and Stiles wants to cry out in protest, but the atmosphere shifts higher in intensity as Derek straightens his spine and stitches his chest to Stiles' back as close as possible. “You’re walking on thin ice, my love. Calling me _Daddy_ just so I’ll fuck you sooner?” he tsks, begins running a second fingerpad around the younger’s rim, “That’s very naughty, Stiles. Impatient, greedy, and manipulative.”

“ _No_ ,” the boy croons back, thoughtlessly removing his right hand from the wall to twist his torso into Derek’s chest and hide against his throat. And he’s dizzy, stuck in an endless loop of too much and not enough.

Neither anticipating the reaction, Derek has to make quick work of splaying his palm across Stiles' lower stomach to keep him from falling forward. “Please be careful, baby,” he stresses off-handedly.

“I’m sorry,” is muffled, turns the flesh of Derek’s neck almost clammy, Stiles' fingers grappling over the man’s bicep to burrow further into his cocoon.

A drawn exhale precedes Derek’s reassurance: “You’re not in trouble,” and then, “Can you not help it, sweetheart? Do you need your Daddy that badly?”

“Mm,” the younger replies, a whimper, his left arm draping itself over Derek’s where he’s held up at the waist.

Derek nuzzles impossibly closer and peppers kisses to his boy’s jaw. “I’m sorry; I didn’t realize you had already dropped, thought you still had a bit of fire to let out with backtalk.”

Stiles doesn’t have anything to respond, is dimly aware of what’s occurring but not able to form complex notations. The other man’s tone is warm, though, so he takes it as a good sign, can’t help but melt into the affection he’s gifted.

“Do you want me to keep going?” Derek queries after a bit.

“Mm, green,” the other nods and places his hands back on stone.

“Good boy,” Derek trails his hands over Stiles' back, hips to calm him.

Thick fingers ease their way in, Stiles gasping at the added digit and crooning contentedly as it curls, stretches his hole. No time passes before the younger’s arching his back and squirming backward to feel Derek’s fingers.

A harsh slap rings throughout the bathroom, Stiles' left asscheek on fire with just one hit. “Be _still_ ,” the man responsible scolds, “I know what you want, and I won’t leave you without, but if you keep distracting me with your gorgeous little body it will only take longer for me to get inside you.”

Obediently, Stiles halts his canting hips. He does shift backward once more, though, closer to his partner’s heat, and he’s secretly preening at having received such attention, is basking in the tingling sensation left behind.

Or maybe not so secretly, because Derek lays his palm over Stiles' prickling butt, chuckles slightly as he massages. “I’m going to have to come up with a punishment that you _don’t_ enjoy, baby boy.”

“Don’t need it; ‘m always good,” Stiles replies cheekily.

“Oh, is that right?” the older trails his left hand back over Stiles' stomach, rests chin on shoulder while kneeing Stiles' legs wider apart.

“Mhm,” Stiles hums out, giggle stuck at the back of his throat.

Derek teases a third finger past the boy’s rim and mouths over his stubbled jaw as a hitched moan is elicited. “I think you’re only good for me when you can share the profit.”

Due to the chatter chancing volatile, Stiles' belly fills with an uncomfortable weight completely unrelated to the pressure Derek’s fingers apply. And Derek’s gone quiet as well, so Stiles knows that this is something to be addressed. “No, Der,” he hushes, straightens his spine cautiously so not to fall off of the knife’s edge into pain, “I want to please you because someone like you deserves to be happy.”

In the blink of an eye, sweltering is the ambiance, no longer sultry. The older man’s gaze scalds Stiles' skin, and Stiles thinks he might suffocate in the lack of Derek’s response, his oxygen.

Deft fingers working their way over Stiles' angry prick shocks an intake of breath, fortunately, and Derek places his lips to the corner of the younger’s mouth, draws out the kiss while he slowly pumps Stiles. “I don’t deserve someone as wonderfully devastating as you.”

A beautiful contradiction. Stiles thinks that his being doesn’t warrant a ‘ _wonderful_.’

“Derek,” Stiles aims to aussage, twists further clockwise to display the sincerity on his countenance, “You’re incredible, as close to perfect as I’ve come across.”

The older’s eyes are rested shut, fuzzy brows pulled down, and he shushes Stiles but nudges their noses together and continues his ministrations on Stiles' heavy cock. “Just –”

It’s accepted that Derek needs a moment. That’s not to say that Stiles understands what has shaken the other so suddenly, but he allows Derek to immerse himself in his own headspace nevertheless. And because Derek hasn’t failed to maintain their arousal, Stiles uses his left hand to fondle Derek’s balls, smooths over the taint because it’s erogenous for most, ease a fist around the thick of Derek’s prick.

A deep kiss slots the couple’s lips together. Stiles' side has begun to ache due to a prolonged twisted stance, but Derek’s mouth is warm in such a pleasing way, touch supplying an intimacy that manages to draw him both closer to the edge and drowse him all at once. And Stiles finds himself lifting onto the his toes, jerking Derek’s head against his twitching hole to satisfy his craving.

Emerged from his private moment, Derek works a tantalizing suckle over the other man’s lower lip before pulling backward. “We need a condom, _Słoneczko_.”

Stiles groans inadvertently. “I want to feel you everywhere, Der,” is whiny, facing once again the shower wall to press his shoulders to the older man’s chest. There’s room left between their hips, though, Stiles flicking his wrist languorously over the pulsing cock at his opening.

“Please be good for me, sweetheart,” Derek groans into Stiles' ear. “I'd love nothing more than to wreck you, but we’re wrinkling in my parents’ shower, and the risk of transmitting a disease is not worth it.”

Upon recalling that the Hales are _werewolves_ with enhanced _hearing_ and _smelling_ , Stiles’ heart rate soars. And the rational part of his brain realizes that Derek wouldn’t be sexing it up if his parents were privy to the fact, but even still Stiles has to bite his tongue against the urge to make sure they’re not close enough to hear. 

But Derek as of yet hasn’t tried to let Stiles in on the family secret, and Stiles doesn’t want to spring the fact on Derek out of nowhere that he already knows.

And Stiles can feel an anxiety attack creeping up. So he inhales slowly through his nose, focuses on the present moment, what he can feel and hear and see. Oh, yeah, Derek just made up some shit about condoms.

Conceding the other man’s point is rather difficult in Stiles' state – horny and tired and verging on hassled. But Stiles' just isn’t able to rationalize why the condom is needed since weres don’t carry diseases and rinsing away the smell of cum seems easier than tossing it in a trash can. Maybe it’s to keep Derek from knotting up. 

Either way, Stiles doesn’t argue, allows Derek’s retrieval of the condom. Not before squeezing tight around the dick in hand, pressing into the slit to gleam precum over the head, though. Stiles groans as well just in case Derek isn’t able to grasp the extent of his discordance.

Also, “ _Ew_ , I don’t want your pruney fingers anywhere near me!”

Derek’s slap to the younger’s ass shocks a squeal out of Stiles in that it’s completely unanticipated. “Such a bratty little princess.”

“That’s _Queen_ to you,” Stiles snips back, irritated more so that he didn’t see the reprimand coming than that he received one. But just because he’s bitter, “And the next time you lay a hand on me I’ll have your head.”

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” Derek continues in a grave tone, and Stiles can picture the smirk. “Allow me to seek atonement.”

Stiles peeks over his shoulder at the prompt, nearly amused with Derek’s charade. And what his gaze lands on is the golden Trojan package in Derek’s hand. “Is that ribbed?” he blurts.

“Mhm,” the other confirms, large palms pillowing Stiles' hips as he assumes his prior position. “Condoms can be fun, see?”

“You’ll be the death of me,” is how Stiles replies, tone moaning as he hitches his ass skyward, rests his forearms flat against the shower wall and allows his head to fall into the crook of his left elbow.

Derek gifts a peck to the back of Stiles' neck, smooths his hands down skinny thighs before retreating once more to put the protection on. “There you are,” he initiates once he’s prepped himself.

Truthfully, Stiles is a bit overwhelmed. Though Derek isn’t _too_ big and being filled up will satisfy him, he’s almost nervous to take the man since he hasn’t made it a habit to practice sex regularly. And Stiles' emotions are roaring, an urge to please Derek both physically and emotionally gnawing prominent at his stomach.

Braving up despite his reservations, the younger grips Derek firmly once more. He’s slick with lube, and the _ridges_ – “This is going to destroy my ass, Der.”

Throaty chuckles fill the air before Derek replaces Stiles' hand with his own, taps his crown playfully against the aforementioned ass. “We’ll take it slow, _Słoneczko_. I want this to be good for you.”

And Derek makes sure that it is: Warm lips trail themselves up Stiles' neck, one hand fondling over his ruddy dick and massaging inner thigh, fist eventually working a rhythm that has the younger keening with abandon as he tries to roll back onto the prick continually snubbing his entrance.

Stiles loses himself in pleasure, has to marshal a ridiculous amount of willpower to slow down. “No, Daddy,” he mewls and pushes the fingers on his cock away. “Want you inside of me when I come.”

“Shh, shh,” the older balms, allowing Stiles to take note of the myriad of whimpers he’s been continually heaving. Rough fingerpads trace circles against Stiles' lower belly. “Always working yourself up, angel. Don’t know if edging helps much, either.”

Maybe Derek has a point, but they’ll have to discuss it when Stiles' thought process stabilizes. As it is, “ _Please_. Fill me up.”

“Alright,” Derek cedes once Stiles' breathing is less frantic, “Easy does it.”

The boy lolls his head to the side in hopes that firmer bites will appease the adrenalin raging in his blood. And he makes an effort to ground himself by splaying his fingers between Derek’s over his stomach.

Derek breeches Stiles' hole then, and Stiles is glad that three fingers were used to open him up because instead of an ache in his ass with the thick of Derek’s head there’s a stuttered sigh of contentment.

“ _That_ ’s a good boy,” Derek mumbles, “Look at you, babe. So pink around my dick.”

Too busy relishing his own sensation of fulfillment, Stiles doesn’t even bother rolling his eyes at his Derek’s shining arousal. It’s not like he has room to tease, anyway. In fact, “Keep going, okay?”

“Mm. You’re so _tight_ ,” Derek blabbers, pushing in an inch more before laughing, taunting, “Even after I worked you open so wide ,you’re just barely swallowing my cock.”

“ _Der_ ,” the younger pitches out as he tenses around the ribs. Thus far Derek’s dick has been soothing to his arousal, but the added texture sends tingling spikes to his wet prick.

“Does it feel good, baby?” Derek hums his acknowledgement to Stiles' ear, slowly sinking in further.

Labored breaths. “It’s so – _much_.”

“Let me make it better?” Derek offers, but he doesn't wait for a reply before he's working over Stiles' cock once more. His strong palm molds around Stiles so nicely, and the pressure is just hard enough to take off the edge with a few slow swipes upward.

As Derek pulls out to push back in, Stiles' exhale stutters, the slow tempo paired with the added texture in his ass so tantalizingly good. He knows that if they were to play any rougher that the stimulation would be too much to handle. But in the moment it’s more than he could have fantasized. “I’m not going to last long, babe,” he admits, cheek cooling itself against ragged stone.

“Neither ‘m I,” Derek heaves out. He sounds slightly out of it, rhythm rising staccato. “But I’d fuck you all night if I could, baby. And I plan to eventually.”

After Stiles falls into his own steady pleasure it takes a few minutes for Derek to work himself down as well, smooth thrusts and clenched eyes as Stiles finds humor in Derek’s excitement, teases him with dirty nothings.

“ _Stiles_ ,” the older moans and squeezes slim hips for emphasis, forehead falling against a broad, freckled shoulder.

“Yes, Daddy?” Stiles plays it up, gives a subtle rotation of his ass and tilts his throat to offer up more skin for Derek’s mouth.

A moment of level breathing fills their silence. Derek does eventually end up succumbing to the supple skin at his mouth. “This is torture. You’re so – _enthralling_ – and you’re letting me take you, and I can’t even keep it together for ten seconds.”

Briefly Stiles entertains the scene of Derek spending his work hours reading a dictionary. Past that, though, Stiles sighs fondly. “Didn’t we just go over this? Derek, do you have any idea what you do to me?”

The man doesn’t respond verbally at first, but he does cover Stiles' hand where it’s holding him up against the wall, intertwines their fingers and eases out of Stiles' hole halfway. “ _Słoneczko_ –”

“No, baby, please,” the younger insists. He tugs Derek’s right hand from his waist and to his mouth for a kiss in an effort to pacify. It’s significant, Stiles knows, that their hands together on his stomach give him such confidence. “You seem so put-together all the time. Genuine in all I’ve seen you do, and you’re always taking me into consideration, trying to please me.”

It’s shallow thrusts, their love-making. And with all of Stiles' focus on rambling he’s beginning to lose grip again on his climax. Derek’s obviously chasing his own as well, but he’s listening to Stiles, and the latter finds warmth in the sincerity even over their intimate touches.

“Knowing that I’m able to take you apart, stutter your heartbeat, cause you to fall over words,” Stiles continues, “I don’t mean to make fun. It’s just so amazing that I’m able to fuck you up the same way you’re able to so easily do me.”

Derek presses his lips to Stiles' cheekbone, trails them to his vulnerable jaw. “My heart hasn’t stopped racing since the moment I laid eyes on you,” is hushed yet oh so loud.

And Stiles doesn’t know where the conversation will lead if they both keep uttering soft words. With two crimson, beating hearts being slipped into each other’s palms, possibly.

But he isn’t given the chance to find out because as soon as Derek pulls out fully to ram back in the breath is knocked out of him, and he knows there’s less than a minute on the clock.

Stiles ends up cumming so intensely his legs can’t stop shaking for minutes afterward, and Derek goes proto-Alpha on him with dazed eyes and minimal grunts and probing fingers.

The rest of the evening is a bit of a blur, honestly.

All Stiles is certain of is that he feels warm and safe, and falling asleep next to another person has never felt so right.


	12. Day Twelve

| _Sunday_ |

For Stiles, there’s a unique feeling associated with arriving back at his apartment, the surrounding blocks he’s etched into the back of his hand since moving here six years ago. It’s not quite _home_ , but it settles contentedness and security in his stomach.

The prior night he picked no fights with sleep, lights out even before Derek was able to round the bed after laying him down. Likewise, waking up in the morning was more enjoyable than usual with Derek’s hand caressing his cheek and the promise of a full spread for breakfast. And, barring James’s disappointment, having to take off for the city wasn’t disheartening. Because Talia and Alexander seemed sincere in wishing him back, and Derek’s shy smile was all the confirmation Stiles needed that he approved of the message.

The two have been quiet all morning. Not reserved, no, as their touches have grown more consistent in place of words that neither feel the necessity to conjure. It’s something Stiles wouldn’t mind at all creating more permanent in his life, but he’s not come far enough to admit it yet.

Derek parks his bike and walks Stiles the ten feet to his building, and it’s rather adorable. Especially with Derek in his hoodie again and beard having scruffed up fuller overnight. 

Maybe because he’s half-asleep or maybe because he craves the man’s proximity, Stiles lays one hand on a thick waist, uses the other to run through Derek’s wind-swept, umber hair. 

A moment passes in which they marinade in each other’s presence, and just when Stiles thinks to say the first goodbye, Derek speaks up: “I realize it’s incredibly late notice, and I apologize for that, but I was wondering if you have plans for tonight.”

Truthfully, Stiles wants to sleep past noon to prepare himself for later informing Lydia on his plans (or lack thereof) for the article. But Derek reads as nervous in asking, and that intrigues Stiles. “Do you have something particular in mind?”

A nod, shuffling feet. “Do you remember me mentioning the diamond account I’m working on? My company is hosting a party for the couple of Dilaurentis Diamonds tonight at the Astor Museum,” he breaks, tilts his head to meet Stiles' gaze while standing a step below, “And I wouldn’t want anyone else accompanying me as my date.”

Stiles blinks owlishly a few times before he’s helpless to a smile lifting his cheeks, slowly shaking his head. As soon as Derek’s shoulders begin slumping Stiles realizes what his response must look like, and that won’t do. “How am I ever going to be able to treat you as well as you do me?”

The other man looks down with the tops of his cheeks coloring, skips over response to what is becoming an ongoing discussion. “Is that a yes?”

Again Stiles shakes his head, but there’s amusement evident with a light laugh, and he steps forward to wrap his arms over Derek’s shoulders, press their bodies together. “Of course, Derek. I’d love to be there for you.”

Derek’s smile seems uncontrollable as it stretches the man’s cheeks a lovely red. “A follow-up question is required,” he informs while still holding Stiles' waist tight to him after a stolen moment of tender gaze.

The younger pulls back to cock an eyebrow, smirk in place.

Almost sheepish rather than shy, Derek explains: “A display of the Dilaurentis’ jewelry will be set up for guests to wear test for the evening. You’re welcome to do so as well, but I’ve also got something extra in mind for you if you’d like.”

Stiles considers joking about the ‘extra’ being an engagement ring, but he doesn’t exactly want to remind Derek of all the lurid shit he’s pulled. “Care to explain?”

“Well, it’s an outfit,” is all that Derek offers. “I don’t want to tell you who by so you don’t decline, though.”

“This doesn’t sound too promising, Mr. Hale,” Stiles tries to tease, but, admittedly, the very notion of Derek gifting him clothes so impressive makes him a bit anxious.

“Just hear me out, Stiles,” he holds his hands palms-up, is playing rather than nervous now, “I’m sure you’ve realized by now that I’ve got a decent pocketbook and connections due to the advertising I work with. I don’t have much use for the connections for just myself, but it makes me happy to gift other people.”

Concern is etching its way into Stiles' features, because Derek seems to be worrying himself disproportionately. He extends his hand, and Derek takes it, presses the back to his lips.

“I promise the things I buy don’t come out costing as much as you think, and I want to spoil you a bit.”

“I accept, D,” Stiles is quick to reassure, “It’s just hard for me because I don’t know how to repay you.”

It’s Derek’s turn to shake his head, and he does so. “Seeing you preen under my attention is repayment enough.”

The younger is just about to hide his face against Derek’s neck when the latter chucks his chin, holds it with a thumb. “I’ve got to make arrangements, but a package will arrive here for you at 4:00, and I’ll pick you up at 7:00. Good?”

Stiles nods as best he can, consents to an indulgent kiss that probably contains too much tongue (even if soft and hidden) for public eye.

“By the way,” Derek pipes up once they’re separated by the steps of Stiles' building. He’s almost smug, Stiles' willingness to receive his offers likely promoting confidence. “Don’t make plans for next weekend because it’s my turn to pick out a movie.”

**

If he had to give rank, Stiles would say that standing outside of Lydia’s office in the current moment is one of the most nerve-wracking he’s spent at work.

Which is funny considering how unintimidating Lydia is once you learn her. Whip smart, yes. Gorgeous, yes. Vicious, yes. Okay, so maybe she still is intimidating. 

He’s wasting time. He still has to pick up Yoda from Scott’s, drop the cat off at Derek’s, stop by the market, and be back at his apartment with enough time to mentally prepare himself for the attire Derek is sending. Yet he’s spent a solid seven minutes stood outside Lydia’s door growing irrationally angry with the neon versus white color scheme.

Stiles counts down from ten, but he doesn’t knock at zero.

So, instead, he replays in his head time spent with Derek. From the meeting in which he accepted his assignment to this morning, Stiles goes over the time he’s known the other man. Harboring all details that promote guilt and regret, he finally feels as empowered as he did when the decision to cancel the article was first met.

He raps on the door possibly a bit too harshly.

“Come in,” Lydia’s voice rings out.

Upon entering, Stiles finds his boss leaned over her desk, leafing through haphazard stacks of papers. “Lydia,” he voices in greeting.

Without looking up, she addresses, “What brings you to my office, Stiles?” Her tone is dull, tired. Almost as if she knows what he’s going to say next.

Stiles takes a breath, sweeps the room with his eyes. The walls are painted lavender grey now, which is quite different from her Kermit green phase of two months ago. Absently, Stiles connects that violet is meant to provoke deep thoughts and bright ideas. He wonders if it has helped Lydia at all. Distractingly, there’s a nice view out of her window, but the furniture is red oak and lamps are used rather than the ceiling lights, which bothers Stiles.

“I can’t write the article, Lydia.”

“Can’t you, Stiles?” she retorts, still inflectionless with no eye contact.

He steps forward, folds one hand over the other. “I’ve come to the conclusion that I would rather not betray the trust and confidence of the man I’ve been seeing.” A pause, Stiles clearing his throat, irritated that Lydia has yet to properly acknowledge him. “He’s such a good guy –“

“Do you address me as _Doctor_ Lydia?” his boss cuts him off abruptly, palms flat to her desk, face toward him.

A tense pause. “No, I don’t,” Stiles grits his teeth, clasps his hands behind his back.

Lydia looks away again, begins straightening papers methodically. “That’s because I’m not your therapist, Stilinski, but your boss.” She tosses her gaze sideways to Stiles before rounding her desk to file away her documents. “My job is to oversee the content production for _Prestige Magazine_. My job,” she turns back to Stiles, “is to make sure articles are written.”

Understandably, Stiles is offended. He does realize that Lydia is his superior, and he tries his best to respect that, but. “I can have an article written. Just not one that makes all parties involved look like fools.”

Assuming stance behind her desk, Lydia stares blankly at Stiles for a few seconds. She pivots, sashays slowly over to her window before settling to look out of it, crosses her arms over her chest.

If this were a movie, Stiles thinks, this moment would be monumental. Awkward, perhaps, but Stiles steps closer to the window as well.

“You want high standing in print media,” Lydia states.

“Er – I do,” Stiles confirms, “but I also would like to enjoy my work.”

His boss lets out a sardonic laugh, looks over her left shoulder to eye Stiles. “You’ve got to put in work, and this is just the bottom rung of the ladder, kid.”

First of all, Lydia is the same age as him. Secondly, his position now is arguably the second rung. The foundation for the ladder to stand on would be education and schooling, the first would be running around with scalding coffees and colonizing the copy room as goes with interning, and the second would be where Stiles is now – a full-page trivial column that is sometimes cut back to allow room for a wider gossip spread.

It’s been silent too long for Stiles, and he’s feeling bold. “I just wish I were able to write things differently. How-to is fine, but the subject matters I’m allowed are juvenile and often times demeaning.”

“You said your article makes _Prestige_ look stupid, did you not?” she continues viewing through her window, doesn’t let Stiles reply, “I beg to differ. Every journalist now allowed an editorial in the _New York Times_ started from the bottom as well. They know dumb articles are not often the views of the writer, so there’s not traction lost with prominent people in the field. And our consumers are the ones buying into it, so who’s truly the fool?”

Stiles is – shocked. He knows that in journalism many must build their career from the ground up, but having his boss speak ill of their readers is bit disconcerting. Even as Lydia turns to go back to her desk Stiles stays put, a bird’s eye view of the people and buildings and traffic below.

“It’s all fake, Lydia. Take for example the how-to I did on escaping a speeding ticket: I spoke to a cop and asked his opinion on the best way to get out of one, but I didn’t actually try my hand at speeding and getting caught. The anecdotes weren’t reality.” He’s grown visibly frustrated, forehead wrinkling. Still, he faces the woman. “We’re training a horde of mindless sheep.”

“The sheep have money, Stiles,” Lydia dregs, leaned over her desk to look over a poster.

“But –“

“Keep writing what is approved of and you’ll be able to make it to the next wrung,” she cuts him off, “The cover for December’s issue is at the printer as we speak, and there’s a special section on Dilaurentis Diamonds as they prepare to launch more advertising strategies, which will cover our ad quota for most of the new year.”

When Lydia stands back up, Stiles is able to get a look of December’s first cover with some popular singer. The background is white, the lettering orange, and he’s definitely seen worse. He takes in a deep breath and is preparing to reason further when he’s stuck with an idea that now seems the easiest option.

“I want a copy of ‘How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days’ on my desk in twenty-four hours, Stilinski,” his boss reminds as he spins to exit her office.

A ladder needs something to prop against, and an audience seems to fit the metaphor well. Stiles figures if fake is what they want then they shouldn’t have any qualms with a fabricated story.

**

Extravagant is the best way Derek can describe the setup for the Dilaurentis party. He’s only been in the Astor Museum once, and it was grandeur that time as well, but this time the music is more pleasant, the decorations more expensive, and the people more important.

Not to mention that Stiles was not with him the first time.

The stunning man had been understandably shy upon Derek’s arrival at his complex, but he was delighted with the attention, Derek could tell. So Derek didn’t hold back his awe, rubbed his palm over Stiles' freshly trimmed, dark hair (sans green dye, thankfully) and begged into a makeout session to satiate the nerves the younger boy always alights. Luckily enough, the partition was already in place before Stiles was picked up.

Further, Stiles had been thoroughly impressed with the Rolls-Royce Derek rented for the night, and every few minutes Derek would catch him trailing his eyes over his gifted _Louis Vuitton_ blouse, fingers testing the silk. Stiles only tucked his chin when he was caught, leaned further into Derek for kisses to layer his trimmed jaw.

It looks nice on him, of course. Vibrantly colored with such detailed patterning that it kind of makes Derek’s eyes hurt. And it’s all very Stiles-like.

Stood just inside the entrance, Derek knows they must depart soon. He has to conduct business, entertain the Dilaurentis, after all. Letting go of his date isn’t on the top of his list.

Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but Derek is starting to play with the possibility that Stiles isn’t like Kate or Jennifer or even Braeden. The boy doesn’t hate the Hales on principle of their species (whether he’s aware of the fact is still up for debate), isn’t sleeping with Derek to further his career (at least, Derek doesn’t think so. He never mentioned that Stiles’ boss is his sister-in-law.), and connects with Derek on both superficial and deeper levels. The kid is eccentric at times, sure, and demanding more often than not, but those aren’t exactly negatives. 

Derek is starting to think Stiles just might be the best he’s ever had.

“I’ve got to check in with Laura, and then I’ll grab us some drinks from the bar,” Derek murmurs to the younger’s ear but keeps his arm tight around the slimmer waist. “Would you like to look at the jewelry?”

Stiles turns to face Derek with a coy smile. “Champagne sounds nice. Anything too heavy and I’m afraid you’ll be bent over for me before we can make it home.” His lashes blink lazily as if he doesn’t know what his teasing does to Derek’s arousal.

Truly, Derek would like nothing more than to wine and dine the boy, let him ramble all night on his interests and then ride Derek’s dick until the first rays of sunlight. But tonight serves primarily to advance Derek’s own career, and he knows that even a kiss to Stiles' cheek he wouldn’t be able to pull away from, so he takes a step back. “It’s the fresh hair, _Słoneczko_ ,” Derek joshes back. On a more serious note, though, “Enjoy the party while it lasts. I’d rather us only stay long enough for a few chats past formality expects.”

A harsh smirk still twists the younger’s lips, but it softens as they hold each other’s gaze. “I think I have something to talk to you about, Derek.”

Derek’s own smile drops, worry rearing up in his stomach. “Good or bad?” he tries to laugh, but it might sound pathetic.

Stiles averts his eyes, vouches not to answer for a moment to instead smooth his hand over the lapel of Derek’s suit jacket, thumb a slender black tie. “It doesn’t have to be bad, I don’t think,” the boy takes time to say his words, “I’d like for it not to be, at least.”

The response does little to settle Derek’s insecurities, and it’s likely written on his face in a deep frown and harsh brow, because Stiles looks back up to add: “You didn’t do anything wrong, sourwolf. I also think it’s obvious that I’m kind of obsessed with you, so I don’t plan on calling it quits.”

Warmth fills Derek stomach instead as if he’s already downed a flute of champagne. “Alright, _Słoneczko_ ,” he chances a glance at his black Hublot, hopes the action isn’t read as rude. “I probably should have made my appearance a few minutes ago.”

“You’ll do great,” Stiles insists with his palm rested over Derek’s pec, “and you look dashing, Mr. Hale.”

Derek itches to press his lips to Stiles' but instead flashes his teeth, takes the boy’s hand and draws it to his mouth, kisses gently over knuckles. “As do you, love. Try and treat yourself for tonight.”

The younger grins, departs with grace, and Derek is stuck on staring at him as he reaches the jewelry display.

It takes a few moments of Derek weaving in and out of groups to find Peter, and when they meet eyes Peter merely nods at him, apparently deep in conversation with the red-headed woman in front of him. Derek takes the nod as free reign to mingle, Peter likely just harassing Lydia about not making it to the family weekend.

On his way to the bar Derek notices Blake and Pearson already there, and he considers grabbing two flutes of champagne that are served as favors rather than finer stuff. But Pearson spots him, and he knows he’ll appear like a dog with a tucked tail if he backs away now.

“Ladies,” Derek greets briefly before flagging a bartender, requesting the man’s choice drink with a hard liquor and soda. He thinks he’ll need the courage tonight, but Stiles was right to say that too much will beg a special show from Derek that the whole party might not prefer to see. If only he could slip some wolfsbane strain in there.

“You’ve got him here. I’ll give you that,” Blake starts drily.

“But that could simply be for the perks you’re able to provide,” Pearson finishes.

Derek has to work for their bitter commentary not to go to heart, and he’s helped along when the bartender places a Tequila Sunrise in front of him. He takes a sip to ease into the night, wishes Lips & Hips would evacuate the premises for him to drink in peace, but they remain standing near while in their own conversation.

Despite having parted from Stiles partially in order to clear his mind and regain control of himself, his eyes seek the younger boy out. And Derek is thoroughly endeared, proud. Stiles is holding his ground with Mr. Dilaurentis, nodding and smiling and looking lovely as the older man requests a certain bracelet for Stiles to wear, employees at the stand scurrying to deliver.

His coworkers step in front of him just as Mr. Dilaurentis moves on and Stiles floats to the earring section on his own, people around him leaning closer to strike conversation.

Finally Derek looks up, and the women are cutting off his view with their clutched purses, suggesting that they’re ready to move on. “Looks like you’ve got competition, Hale. The strings Mr. Dilaurentis can pull are much more impressive than yours.” They promptly clack off in all of their stiletto and little black dress infamy.

A scoff escapes Derek as soon as they’re gone due to the ludicrousness of the suggestion. Stiles, after all, has shown no signs that he’s after Derek’s pocketbook. He’s begun to allow himself to enjoy upmarket gifts, but that doesn’t mean the boy’s a gold digger.

Derek _knows_ that Stiles isn’t with him because of his money. Not like Kate or Jennifer or maybe even Braeden was.

He takes a gulp of his drink anyway. Not that it will get him anywhere near drunk, but going through the motions settles him.

A few more moments pass of Derek’s attention idly sweeping over the party guests, and he enjoys critiquing attire and catching snippets of conversation. When he takes his eyes from the ballroom’s stage he can’t find Stiles, and he’s shifting to leave the bar when someone steps in front of him.

Mrs. Dilaurentis acts thrilled to see him, claps her hands together once, and the lights bounce off of her box-colored pixie cut that’s as candy red as her dress. “Excuse me young man, but I was directed over here by one Peter Hale, and I was wondering if you’d be so kind as to order me a screaming orgasm.”

Trying to hide his discomfort with the outspokenness, Derek forces a smile, tries to view the vivacious woman as freshly entertaining. “Mrs. Dilaurentis, it’s a pleasure. My name is Derek Hale, and I’m with Wolfe-Mann Advertising.”

“Oh, the pleasure is mine,” Dilaurentis throws a hand over her heart, “I’m so pleased with the party your company has thrown in my honor.”

Derek refrains indefinitely from correcting the missus that the party was rather thrown for her husband because he controls a great many jewelers and thus approximately seventy percent of the world’s diamond supply. It’s a bit hard to not be blunt, though, when her fiery nails are clawed over his chest. “Well, I can assure you that our presentation is just as promising.”

While Mrs. Dilaurentis laughs, Derek twists away to again request a bartender. The same one that served Derek earlier takes his order of a Screaming O now, and when he sees that the Red Woman is in their midst he tosses Derek an underhanded smirk.

**

Waiting for Derek to make his reappearance, Stiles tries his luck with a sparkling white wine offered by a server. Since being bombarded by people talking him up about the diamonds on his wrist he’s grown weary of conversation, has decided to find his seat in the ballroom. He’d truly like to be by Derek’s side even if it meant acting as an accessory, but a few extra moments apart surely won’t kill him.

Oh, God, he really is a sugar baby.

What catches his eye on the way to his seat is a bright red dress, and, low and behold, Derek chatting with the woman responsible. Stiles is intrigued enough by the sight to lean against a pillar and sip out of his flute.

Just a few moments pass before Stiles realizes that the tone of their conversation is likely being steered toward less-than-innocent. Stiles would become angry if not for the lack of crinkles by his date’s eyes, which indicates inauthentic laughter, Derek shifting away every time the lady tries to paw at his torso. And there’s also the fact that the man is extremely gay. Literally begged to lick Stiles asshole last night.

Still, Stiles is urged to step in and protect Derek from discontentment if not lay his own claim on the older man. He convinces himself not to in case the conversation is actually important for Derek’s career, and he instead traipses back toward the seating area.

He’s taking in the stage’s indigo, starry curtain, the white cloths over round tables, the various elegantly floral centerpieces when a man floats into his line of vision, obviously walking toward Stiles.

The man turns out to be creepy Uncle Peter dressed in a fitted tux, black bow tie slightly crooked. Despite, he’s quite handsome. “Excuse me,” his voice rings out, “Do you mind?”

Although confused, Stiles tries not to show it. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m Peter Hale of Wolfe-Mann Advertising,” he shows off a dazzling smile, “I’m the reason this gala is running. People should be seeking me out.”

Stiles is admittedly a bit caught on the man’s features before what he’s said clicks into place, and, “Oh, you’re Derek’s boss.” Hopefully he doesn’t look too much an idiot.

Peter only continues to smile, “Being an uncle doesn’t pay the bills.”

“No kidding,” Stiles replies, wonders if it would be weird to shake Peter’s hand since he’s already met him. “Your company has done an excellent job organizing this gala.”

“The party has just started,” Peter leans closer with a wink, a slightly off-putting edge to his tone.

Stiles is fully prepared to excuse himself to the restroom in order to escape an edging awkwardness when Peter transitions into a new topic: “I must comment on the inspiration you’ve been to Derek while he prepares to pitch to the Dilaurentis.”

Furrowing brow, the younger has to look away, places his eyes on the instruments propped on stage for the entertainment to come. The allusion is a bit ridiculous, isn’t it? “I’ve seen some of Derek’s projects, and I think he was doing just as well before he met me.” And it’s true. The day that Stiles went to Derek’s office for lunch he could hardly keep up with Derek’s ideas, sat there quietly to try and absorb as much information as possible on the diamond campaign.

Peter holds his tongue, cocks his head. “He’s talented, yes. Surely you’ve seen your own impact on tonight, though? The slogan for the campaign is ‘ _Frost Yourself_ ,’ after all,” Peter continues, eyeing Stiles as if he’s yet to take the hint.

It takes a moment to connect details in his brain, but Stiles can vaguely recall having referred to Yoda’s collar as ‘frosting.’ The comment was absurd to say the least, but as a catchphrase in an ad it’s not half bad. Stiles glances to Peter who is angled more toward Stiles than the stage. “It was Derek’s ingenuity that created his sell.”

The other man stares at Stiles a moment before nodding slightly, taking a sip of his drink as if resigned. A beat later, though, “Your boy has been much more excited for the party lately than he was when it was first announced. Seeing you in your finery, I can see why he would be.”

Stiles subconsciously brushes a forefinger over his nose, careful of the linked bracelet that jangles musically with every flick of his wrist. The jewelry is a slight distraction from the fact that Stiles doesn’t like where his current conversation is going. “Derek likes to treat me, but he could definitely do better in the looks department.”

“Quite the contrary,” Peter clarifies, stuffs one hand in his trouser pocket, “I think him having someone so dear to spoil certainly has motivated him to perform his best for the night.” He leans closer once more, tilts his head quizzically, “Would you not say that you have been influenced by Derek similarly?”

And, well. That’s a fair question. Stiles believes that influence is pulled from everything around you, but it is true that Derek has been the biggest factor in Stiles' work as of recent. For obvious reason.

Cutting into Stiles' thoughts, Peter adds, “Nothing is more inspired than a man in love.”

“No,” Stiles reacts immediately, cheeks heating at his sharp outburst and palms wanting to raise in defense. He lifts his flute to his mouth to give his hands something to do. “I mean, there’s certainly something to agree with in your idea, but I’m not in love.”

“Are you not?” Peter interrogates, tiny smirk easy on his features as if he knows something Stiles doesn’t, “I was speaking of Derek as the man in love, but you assuming I meant it as you should say enough.”

Stiles hopes the color of his cheeks can be blamed on his wine as he’s stuck on Derek’s boss declaring his employee in love, family or not. He would deem the whole situation mortifying if his brain didn’t first pounce to past happenings between Derek and himself. Whether he’s trying to confirm or deny the possibility he won’t allow himself to answer.

There have been moments where their eye contact lasted long past what should be considered comfortable, and there have been times when Derek’s smile was too wide to be simple enjoyment, and there have been instances where Stiles swore he could stay in that place forever. But, “It’s only been twelve days, Mr. Hale. We can’t possibly be in love.”

“No? I’m sorry for my speculation. It’s in the way you look at each other, I suppose,” Peter shrugs, positions himself away from Stiles as if in deep musing.

Frightening is what the supposition is. Thrilling and exposing as well, but the notion that one’s life could change so drastically in so little time is petrifying mostly. When Stiles thinks of Derek and their time spent together, though, it’s not scary. Derek is comfort and laughter, ease and enjoyment. Past his concerns rotating around the article, Stiles is not frightened by what Derek and him have, and for that reason he doesn’t feel it should be proclaimed as ‘ _love_ ’.

Still, Stiles is rubbed the wrong way by Peter apologizing for believing either he is loved by Derek or that Derek is loved by him. The man moves to stand while Stiles finds his tongue: “One day I think I could love him. One day I might actually earn his love. But there’s just a lot to factor in before that day comes.” It’s sure. Freeing to admit.

Peter has stopped, and he twists back around. “That is fair enough, Stiles.” He nods, commences his walk away.

Stiles is pleased with himself for a short moment, but then panic seizes at his chest. “Wait, Mr. Hale! Please don’t say anything to Derek.”

The man smiles, nods again.

**

Just as soon as Derek escapes Mrs. Dilaurentis, Isaac and Boyd bombard him with incessant questions: “What did she say? Why was she all over you? Did you win?”

He’s a bit worn out, and his drink hasn’t done much but leave a sour taste in his mouth. Right now, Derek wants to steal Stiles away for the night and say screw all to the damned bet that has haunted nearly every waking moment. Shamelessly, he wants to crawl into the other man’s lap, order takeaway, and watch dry reality t.v. Wants to feel like a proper couple. Sue him.

Derek is preparing to shrug off his betas as politely as possible when he feels someone clap a hand on his shoulder, which causes him to tense up to protect from the threat. It’s only Peter, though. Which, well – his earlier instinct still stands reasonable.

“Congratulations, point man: that boy is yours, the pitch is yours,” his boss informs, catches Derek’s eye long enough to wink before he’s off again to terrorize someone else.

The news shouldn’t be as big a shock as Derek takes it: Stiles feeling anything close to _love_ for him. It’s maybe because Stiles switches between loudly annoyed and quietly affectionate every other day that has driven Derek into such confusion regarding their relationship. Such enthrallment.

It’s been whirlwind, honestly, but Derek has decided on assuming that the boy’s back and forth is meant to be a test. Of what caliber Derek has admittedly not configured. Considering Stiles has been on a sweet streak nearly all weekend, and with the knowledge that he must have said something to convince Peter of their relationship’s genuineness, Derek allows himself to hope he’s close to winning Stiles' game.

Derek’s smile is far from contained, a rush of excitement in his veins, wolf holding itself proudly. He should be introducing himself to Mr. Dilaurentis, should be utilizing his elevated mood to socialize and make connections.

Instead, he searches out Stiles. 

Again, as if fate is not in his favor, Lydia steps in front of him, ecstatic as Mrs. Dilaurentis was, but this time there’s natural, artful waves in ginger hair. A navy dress paired with magenta lips is – er – definitely a statement. But Derek is decidedly less knowledgeable and more ‘boring’ when it comes to fashion, which Lydia always drills into his brain, so.

“You’re the new point man for the Dilaurentis?” she asks.

An internalized sigh. Not because he’s not eager to talk about his success but because his wolf is growing agitated at not being able to touch Stiles’ skin, thank the boy for his support, share in celebration. “Yes,” is dutifully professional as Derek extends his hand, “I really don’t know how I managed to earn it.”

Lydia rolls her eyes, but there’s fondness in her quirked lips, “Congratulations, Mr. Hale. Laura was rooting for you quite obviously.

Although Laura had first chosen Blake and Pearson to pitch, there’s this resounding urge to support packmates – and especially blood family – that let’s Derek believe Lydia. “I can see that,” he smirks.

“Laura’s always made it easy for my position of executive director at Prestige Magazine to meet my yearly ad quota,” Lydia slits her eyes and cocks her hip as if Derek had forgotten her job title, “So you better not fail us.”

“Don’t tell me you’ll hold out on Laur if I fuck this up,” Derek groans, wolf baring its teeth, “She’ll literally rip my balls of, Lyds!”

As if summoned by the threat of lack of sex and the suggestion of being able to beat up on her brother, Laura appears in an elegant black number, dark hair pinned back on one side, champagne glass held leisurely in one hand as she wraps the other around Lydia’s waist. “Are you harassing my wife, little brother?”

Derek can’t tell if Laura seriously thinks she’s funny. He veers on the side of caution, surmises his own laugh. “We were just discussing how impressed I am with the rise of _Prestige_ ’s value.”

And the compliment proves to be a mistake on Derek’s part, Lydia gushing like a broken dam once she’s given enough room to. Adjectives are utilized oddly – some even Derek hasn’t learned – and hands articulate as she goes on about the ‘average reader’ and how she’s managed to appoint her staff so well.

Attention elsewhere, Derek’s eyes skirt around the room, mentally thank Boyd and Isaac for running interference with Pearson and Blake by the bar.

More than ever, Derek desires to get back to his date because even though Stiles rambles on just as much as Lydia, at least Stiles doesn’t talk about work. Derek is adept at this type of chatter, though, so he nods his head on interval, trains a dazzling grin, and scorches the locale for the one person he’s _determined_ to get back to.

After a few minutes of balancing conversation and a national fucking treasure hunt, Derek spies his date sat at a table, glass of wine in hand, flanked by – Isaac and Boyd? Which, that’s different. Derek’s so intrigued that he accidentally blurts, “Excuse me, Lydia, but there’s a beautiful young man dressed in diamonds that I just have to get to.”

Not insulted, seemingly, Lydia picks right back up, “Oh, Stiles? He’s my _How-To_ guy!”

And that’s –. Maybe Derek will stick around a second longer. “ _How-To_?” he’s more than politely interested, didn’t actually know what beat Stiles covered until now.

“His style is refreshing, and he’s quite talented a writer. He’d be on a straight path to the top if he only knew how to follow instructions,” Lydia shakes her head as if disappointed.

And Derek can see that definitely even after only knowing the boy over a week, Stiles running on his own rules. It draws a quirk to his lips as he watches the protagonist of the story down his drink not ten yards away.

“You won’t believe the article he’s working on right now,” Lydia is back to animated, preparing to serve some hot tea if her waggling eyebrows are anything to go by. “I coined the title myself: How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.”

 _That_ fully draws Derek’s attention, actually. His torso turns toward her. “ _What_?”

“I _know_ ,” Lydia enthuses with a dropped jaw, straightens back up to continue, “He’s reporting on things to do to turn a guy off, and he’s actually started dating someone as a little experiment to see how they work.”

A punch to the gut, Derek is dizzy from the impact of Lydia’s statement.

After a moment he still can’t think properly, doesn’t know how best to react. Because underneath the cut of betrayal, it makes _sense_. All of it makes sense. And he could puke, is burning with the embarrassment and shame from the fact that a man he let so close to himself was most definitely playing him. Aiming to make a fool, dancing circles for the world to see.

Several therapeutic breaths are taken, but he keeps forgetting to inhale oxygen back into his lungs while Laura asking if he’s okay is a buzzing bee beside his ear. Despite, he knows his countenance is a statue. But on the inside he’s spinning, spin –

“How do you know Stiles, Derek?”

**

Boyd and Isaac find Stiles a handful of minutes after Peter parts way, which is unexpected, but not exactly unwelcome. Otherwise Stiles would be drinking alone in order to combat the nerves that have taken root regarding his analysis on his and Derek’s relationship. There’s a fifty-fifty chance that the darker wine he ordered will either calm him or send his mind to Mars, but – being already warm from two prior glasses – he’s willing to give it a shot.

He thinks he’s been quite patient for the hour Derek’s left him unattended, and though he can be rather introverted, enjoyment isn’t found in feeling ostracized. So, again, Derek’s chums will serve just fine as entertainment.

“Hello, boys,” Stiles greets half-heartedly, meeting gaze with Boyd but being hassled into a bro hug with Isaac, who apparently thinks they’re on a different level now that they’ve kind of voluntarily hung out together.

The brunette is jovial as always, proclaims “Stilinski!” and plops himself down to Stiles' right. His cheeks seems to glow a permanent rose.

Maybe Stiles should introduce Scott and Isaac. But, then again, too much simplicity could be dangerous.

Boyd, on the other hand, plasters a smile that’s rather tight, and even when he sits down beside Isaac he checks over his shoulder as if on lookout duty.

“Did Derek send you over here?” Stiles is honestly curious. If so, it means Derek realizes he’s been gone too long and likely feels guilty. If not, Stiles can go back to moping.

“No,” Boyd speaks, “He’s been held up all night, has probably been trying to get back to you.”

Alright, then. Stiles nods, sips at his dry wine. He’s faced toward the stage, but as time has ticked on a few more guests have filtered into the dining area, which has given him added details to entertain his mind.

“Look, uh,” Boyd continues, glances down at his folded hands, “I was wondering if you’ve spoken to two women. Both work for Wolfe-Mann Advertising, kind of a package deal.”

“Braeden Pearson and Jennifer Blake,” Isaac supplies, tone urgent as he rests his forearms on the table and stares Stiles down, “Blake’s black and Pearson’s, well –“

“Orange,” Boyd chortles out a finish.

Stiles is at first confused by the back and forth, but when he realizes the two aren’t aiming at some sort of joke he actually digs into his memories, because there is _something_ rousing in the back of his mind.

And – _fuck_. The descriptions ring a bell because Stiles had been stunned by Pearson’s disconcerting prowess. He met the duo right after receiving his current assignment. Truly, all Stiles can think is _fuck_. Because Lydia told the ladies about the article, and the two work at the same company as Derek. And Derek’s friends are in the preemptive phase of confronting him about it.

He feels like a jackass for not realizing the connection until now, feels as if the alcohol in his stomach might be working its way up.

There’s no way to escape, though, and he had to have known the secret couldn’t be kept forever. If he’s about to be found out he’d like to at least appear to retain some dignity, so he clears his throat as obscurely as possible, crosses his left ankle over his right knee. “What did they say?”

“ _Shit_ ,” Isaac curses, makes a show of dropping his head into his palms.

Boyd isn’t as careless, takes the reigns. “Look, Peter is about to come back over here, and we’d really appreciate it if you told him you didn’t know about the bet.”

Wait, _what_? Stiles wasn’t expecting – that. He wouldn’t call his assignment a ‘bet,’ and why would Derek’s boss slash uncle be pertinent to the situation? On the outside, still, he knows his face remains calm.

“Stiles,” Boyd starts back, flicks his wrist as if to nudge Stiles, “Just tell him that you really do love Derek.”

Stiles' heart palpitates at that, he thinks. If the men know of his and Peter’s conversation, then that means Peter told them. And if Peter is still unsure of Stiles' feelings enough to where he plans to come back to ask, that means he is being propositioned to do so.

“Alright. I completely understand,” Stiles says. He does not understand. But for the time being he’s cut off emotions from playing at his brain, is assuming a clinical viewpoint in hopes of getting caught up.

Having looked up again, Boyd lets out an exhale at Stiles' response. “Thanks, Stiles. This pitch means a lot to Derek.”

Mildly annoyed at the familiarity of names now that it seems they’re merely used for Boyd to ease the situation, Stiles can feel irritation prickling at the nape of his neck. He clenches his teeth to ward it off. Squeezes the stem of his glass firmer.

“Yeah, dude,” Isaac adds, “Since you’re helping him win, he’ll probably buy you something for your efforts. That bracelet you’ve got on is nice. Is it Cartier?”

“You can probably star in a commercial he’ll set up for the Dilaurentis. Model looks,” Boyd whistles with an eyebrow waggle whilst standing back up, which is the oddest expression coming from an otherwise stoic Boyd.

Stiles nods, offers a tight-lipped smile before gulping down the wine as dark as his vision. Red.

Thankfully, the boys pack it in and retreat without any more commentary, just cuffs to his shoulder, leaving Stiles to mull over the information they’ve so carelessly let slip.

A pretty clear, minimalist painting is created in Stiles' mind: Derek wants to head Wolfe-Mann Advertising’s Dilaurentis Diamonds campaign. There’s a running bet between Derek and his boss. His boss has to know whether or not Stiles is in love with Derek, and the answer being _yes_ would benefit Derek.

Stiles doesn’t try to configure where the two women come into play, has been sat at this damned table a night too long. And it’s _hot_.

The increased traffic into the dining area Stiles doesn’t notice until he stands up to go against the flow, squeezing through people and demandingly swiping yet another beverage from a server. The alcohol will raise his blood’s temperature to boiling, he knows, but bursting into flames and escaping this hellhole isn’t deemed the worst case scenario.

A bit out of nowhere a microphone makes its awful whining sound – likely because it’s turned on too close to speakers – and canary lighting dims. Stiles halts for a moment out of disorientation before picking up pace once more.

When a baritone voice makes itself known, though, Stiles can’t help but look towards the stage to place it. Ah, yes: Peter.

Cursing himself, Stiles shakes his head to continue his beeline for the exit, ignores Peter’s opening until he shouts louder, “Mr. and Mrs. Kenneth Dilaurentis!”

Spotlights come down, and the guests begin clapping.

Third time’s the charm, they say. Looking back over his shoulder _this_ time, Stiles is maddened to see Derek stood next to Mrs. Dilaurentis, front and center for everyone to applaud.

And fuck the chains he’s put on his emotions, actually. He feels used and betrayed, needs to let the excess rage out. Turning to his right is an impulse, but the further down the wall he slinks to the stage spikes adrenaline, makes him think his half-formed, less-than-coherent plan is actually a good idea.

His rage is fueled the harder he stares at Derek, the longer Peter’s introduction for their ‘ _Oscar-, Grammy-, Tony-, and Emmy-award-winning_ ” musical guest goes. Stiles wouldn’t recognize the man even if he listened for the name, but, scrutinizing everyone else, it seems he shares that with few others.

But he’s getting off track.

His bright idea is to get on stage and somehow communicate that Derek Hale should fuck himself. _How_ to phrase it he hasn’t decided, but the entertainer has walked into the light and by his piano, will surely begin talking or playing soon, so Stiles ascends the side steps on the platform, angles toward a microphone in its stand and brings it to his mouth just as he hits center stage.

“Yes, one more hand for our special talent of the night,” Stiles proclaims, slightly out of breath. “Such an honor.”

The claps pick up slower this round, people likely confused as to what’s going on. Luckily, he’s not eye-level with the seated guests, his vision actually not quite adjusted to the stage lights yet. And – _oops_ – his wine glass is still in hand, and it’s almost scorching up here, and he’s losing his train of thought, his blood alcohol level definitely making itself known by fogging his head slightly.

But just as he begins thinking he’s made a mistake in coming on stage, his gaze falls on Derek. The only one in the audience standing, the man’s form is a bit harder to make out, but Stiles strains his eyes to view Derek’s expression: nearly blank, impossibly tired. A bit as if he’s seen death already and isn’t _afraid_ of what’s to come but is still dreading it.

Stiles would rather have Derek livid.

“A lot of you out there may not know Derek Hale. Well, I’m here to tell you you’re missing out,” he looks to a few people, confidence building in that they haven’t thrown him out yet. “Not only is he a talented advertising executive, an avid music and film connoisseur, and a _wagering_ champion,” he makes sure to stare at Derek, watches the realization hit the man’s face. Gradual shock, still tired. “But he’s _ruggedly_ handsome,” Stiles leans into the mic to make suggestive eyes at the closest tables as if he’s letting them in on a secret.

A pause for people to laugh, one individual whistling. Security lounging in the back might as well be picking grass for the effort they’re making to do anything, and even the band behind him keeps mum, a few chuckles.

“Most importantly: tonight, he is one hell of a singer, and in honor of his new campaign with Dilaurentis Diamonds, he’s prepared a little musical show for his new friend, Mrs. Dilaurentis.” Stiles leans back on his heel, exaggerates a smile as if he’s told of Derek donating his life savings to the classic ‘starving children in Africa’ that white folks at galas love to vow their support to.

Following Mrs. Dilaurentis lead, the rest of the crowd applauds heartily again. The woman tugs on Derek’s arm, is cooing up at him, but Derek is near glowering, jaw tight yet eyes rising from the dead like a vengeful zombie.

To finish, “So, guests, get ready for Derek Hale’s chosen rendition.” Stiles stays where he is, extends his drink toward Derek. There’s truly no instance in which he’d pass up the opportunity to watch the asshole fumble on stage. “Come on up, _Champ_.”

Derek doesn’t falter on his way forward, though. He graciously begs Dilaurentis off, straightens needlessly his immaculate suit coat, fastens a smile fit for toothpaste commercials.

And Stiles is left to wonder if the man is still playing his chosen role, smartened up nicely with the stature of a race horse. That is bound to earn affection, isn’t it? And yet there were times when vulnerability was seen on Derek’s face, heard in his voice, felt in the press of his fingertips. There’s little way that could have been for show.

Stiles has to wonder if those seemingly intimate moments were put upon as well. Wonders if Derek Hale is that talented of an actor or if he himself is just a horrid judge of character.

Even as Derek advances toward him, Stiles can feel this round of his anger cooling. Even as Derek halts in front of him for effect, palms the small of his back and pulls him into a hug, Stiles can hardly be annoyed by the pettiness. Even as Derek whispers to his ear, “You’re fucked, _How-To_ ,” Stiles inhales a lingering citrus and can only feel drained.

And, _ah_. Mr. Hale knows about the article after all. Well. That’s even, then.

Relief should likely be noted at some point, because at least now there’s nothing to hide. And shame will claw its way into his chest later. But right now Stiles is tired, and he’d like to bury himself in his empty apartment under a chilled duvet until he can suppress all memories of the last two weeks of his life.

The audience is patient as Derek shakes hands with the stalled performer, but Stiles grows restless the longer he’s elevated for everyone to see.

On second thought, he’s done his part in revenge by setting up Derek’s performance, so with the man pulling his phone out to whisper with the entertainer, and with the quiet that has overtaken the milieu, Stiles decides to split. He does it with finesse, though, steps forward slightly to give a bow and then pivots to pace calmly off the stage.

It’s when he’s again in the shadows, slunk as close to his right wall as possible that the floodgates of his emotions break. There’s a gasp – shock – that turns into a laugh – relief – that comes out choked, Stiles having to clamp a hand over his mouth to ward off a sob – shame. It’s all a bit overwhelming because Stiles doesn’t consider himself an overly emotional person, isn’t one to grow teary easily, so he doesn’t know quite how to hold himself. He aims for inconspicuous.

His goal is not obtained, apparently, because Derek spots him before he can exit the ballroom: “Don’t run off now, Stilinski: the show hasn’t even started.”

Stiles ignores the man, steeles his shoulders to continue to his exit and hopes that the spotlight won’t be trained on his get-away.

“Isaac, Boyd,” booms Derek, a certain tenacity thinly veiled by the sweetness of his tone, “Catch him for me. I don’t think he’d forgive himself if he were to miss this opportunity.”

The process of events is rapid, Derek’s cronies standing as a wall between Stiles and the outside world, Stiles – infuriated – spinning around to glower at the advertising executive, and the continuation of Derek’s spiel after a pause that’s apt for building tension.

“You see,” he quirks a smirk, a fire blazing behind darkened amber eyes, “this performance is much better as a duet, but my boyfriend has been much too modest to confirm his participation. Please, if you’d like to see his presence grace the stage once more, give him an encouraging hand.”

Derek Hale is quick and devious, certainly, and the crowd is rather foolish, Stiles is able to judge. At least he’s vaguely impressed by the former.

For his part, Isaac whisper-shouts an apology before nudging Stiles back toward the platform as a blinding spotlight actually does land on the group, following Stiles as he pulls an abashed façade, which is not too far from how he currently feels.

“Very brave of him,” Derek acts an innocent sadist, offers his hand to the younger as he climbs back onto the stage.

Stiles almost smacks away the palm out of spite, but then he hopes that acting unbothered will hurt Derek more than expending a genuine emotion would. So he squeezes thick fingers as hard as he can. The sugar of Derek’s lips touches the back of Stiles' hand, and he finds that it’s already turned acidic.

“One of your favorites, my love,” the older beams toward the crowd, “‘Love Yourself’ by Justin Bieber.”

Stiles is tempted to break character at Derek’s reveal because it rivals his own pettiness. It’s a clouded memory, and Stiles can’t even recall where they were or what the grander picture was, but he does remember specifically droning on about how shitty the song is, how vindictive.

Derek can’t be let win, though, so Stiles claps along with the crowd that is clearly wary of the situation now. Maybe because Justin Bieber is a bit too modernized and less refined for their taste. Likely because his and Derek’s interactions are so obviously impromptu and disorganized.

Regardless, the older trains his attention flickeringly on Stiles' face, finds nothing to read, and then twists toward the entertainer with a nod, “Mr. Hamlisch.”

The piano resounds immediately, Derek starting abruptly, and it’s awkward, but the man admittedly recovers well: “ _For all the times that you rain on my parade, and all the clubs you get in using my name_ –”

Stiles aims to ignore the whole production as best as possible, but then Derek locks eyes with him, and maybe the older truly _is_ that good of an actor with the way hurt plays on his outstretched arm yet malice in his jaw.

“ _You think you broke my heart. Oh, boy, for goodness’ sake. You think I’m crying on my own. Well, I ain’t_.”

And, well, the song fits a bit, doesn’t it? Stiles has to look away, can’t let himself sit on the lyrical meaning lest he crumble, consequently admitting defeat.

The other man must decide the message hits too close to home as well, because he turns to the audience for the rest, pitching beautifully through notes with a wide grin, the devil disguised as a girl scout selling laced Thin Mints.

Against his better judgment, Stiles wants to bop along to the tune, commend Derek for his voice and charisma. His presence is just so – _captivating_ – and there’s also an urge to run his hands over hunched shoulders, taught forearms. Claim. He’ll blame it on muscle memory.

The fact that any part of him wants to be with Derek still irritates Stiles, so he instead remains unflappable as a queen’s guard at Buckingham motherfucking Palace, grows increasingly annoyed the longer the chorus draws out.

Finally, the second verse arrives, and Stiles knows he’s never been as relieved to hear the song this far through.

“ _When you told me that you hated my friends_ ,” Derek is staring into Stiles' soul again, the latter feels as if, and it’s so demeaning that it’s the last straw barring Stiles' silence, “ _The only problem was with you and not them_.”

“Oh, please,” the scoffs into the mic, fuzzy backfeed as it knocks his chin, “They’re practically brainless zombies.”

“– _my opinion was wrong_ ,” the older continues, ignores the commentary, “ _and tried to make me forget where I came from_ –“

“That’s not even applicable, Derek,” Stiles huffs, inconvenienced by the situation. He actually crosses his arms, cocks his hip, and scowls at his partner.

“– _wanna write a song ‘cause I didn’t want anyone thinking I still care. I don’t, but_ –“

“Obviously you do since you dragged me on stage,” is meant to deride, but it sounds more bored.

“ _I’ve been moving on, and I think you should be something I don’t wanna hold back. Maybe you should know that_ –” Derek’s jaw has loosened to allow a sneer, and he looks like a dick, as if he thinks Stiles is burning down.

Naturally, Stiles doesn’t take well to that. “ _Your mother loves me, hasn’t met anyone else_ ,” He busts out, seamlessly hitting key and overpowering Derek’s line.

“ _And I never like to admit that I was wrong_ ,” the man appears staggered mostly by the other’s effort, recovers easily only to be cut off again.

“ _And you’ve been too caught up in your_ bet _to see what’s going on_.”

“ _But now I know I’m better sleeping on my own ‘cause if you like the way you look that much_ –” Derek flows with the repartee, anger triumphing over cockiness.

“You _made_ me wear this, dick,” Stiles is back to ripostes, is a bit breathless after two lines. In a good way, though, epinephrine drowning out what pains him to be standing on stage doing – _this_.

“– _and love yourself. And if you think that I’m still holding on to something, you should go and love yourself_.”

When the instrumental hits, Derek is sweeping arms and swaying hips.

Stiles is honestly stunned that Derek is engaging the crowd, now that reality is sinking in. He’s _working_ the crowd. He must be extremely fucking pissed to be embarrassing himself life this. Also, he’s an Alpha werewolf that’s just been challenged, so at least there’s a smigde of reasoning behind this whole spectacle. 

Reluctantly Stiles focuses on the audience while Derek garners claps and hoots from their spectators. Overall, it seems in fine spirit. They must think this is some sort of joke.

It’s easiest to pick out the people he’s familiar with, of course. Isaac and Boyd seem to be making a grand effort not to make themselves known, heads down and shoulders hunched. Mrs. Dilaurentis is most visibly entertained by the performance, likely not realizing it’s an agitated homicide as she shimmies and claps gayly. Peter, sat to the left of Dilaurentis, hardly looks bothered. In fact that might be amusement in the flicker of his gaze, which is quite sickening considering he’s been a major catalyst of the present disaster.

There’s a realization that the back of Stiles' neck is dripping sweat, and he doesn’t know if it’s more due to the heat of stage lights or his body working overdrive to keep him in front of everyone making a fool of himself, Derek, and the whole event.

 _Ridiculous_ is a word hissed in Stiles' mind. It’s utterly ridiculous that two grown men are allowing trifling emotions to cloud their judgment – especially in regard to what’s best for their given careers. Atrocious that both set out to improve their vocational rankings yet have found themselves potentially destroying the very footings they’ve built.

So, on a professional level, Stiles can appreciate Derek’s drive to grow, improve. On a relational level, betrayal is prominent. And on an intimate level, well. The fact that he’s given himself so fully to the man, and considering that he did it only after committing himself to the truth of what their relationship was – or, what he _thought_ it was shaping to be, Stiles is wrathful.

Honing back in on the other man as the final verse kicks off, letting “ _For all the times that you made me feel small_ ” breeze past him to lock eyes with Derek, Stiles figures there’s nothing else to be but truthful: “ _I fell in love now I feel nothing at all. I never felt so low when I was vulnerable. Was I a fool to let you break down my walls_?”

There’s a hint of dramatics behind his hand motions, his voice belting incredibly, but Stiles makes sure not to stray from Derek’s eyes, continues, “ _Cause if you think that you’re the better man, then, baby, you can go and fuck yourself. And if you think that I’m still holding on to nothing, you should go and fuck yourself_.” Stiles sets his finale up with a riff, palm to his abdomen and neck arched.

As the note dies out, he pelts the mic at Derek’s chest. Then he promptly jogs off stage, swivels through rounded dining tables toward the exit.

Behind them there’s an ensuing ruckus, Derek deriding, “There he goes, Ladies and Gentlemen; that is Stiles Stilinski fleeing the building.”

It’s a bit disorienting for Stiles when the chilled night air smacks his cheeks, especially since he has to adjust to abrupt dimming of light as well. He doesn’t slow down until he’s descended the stairs, hunches forward and drags in burning oxygen. He can’t quite get a grip, and he hopes for his life that an anxiety attack won’t creep up.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” is bellowed from behind Stiles, “I’m not done with you yet.”

Either Stiles can continue running or he can face Derek’s wrath. Derek was his ride, and he doesn’t think the driver will be back for another hour yet, but he’s sure taxis can be hailed if he walks just a street down. He focuses on the fountain in front of him. It’s not giving him any blatant directives.

Stiles turns around, and he’s taken aback with the blow to his chest at seeing the other man angry. Red cheeks, prominent jaw, bulging forehead vein. “I think each piece has been said,” is spit out slowly.

“What the _hell_ was that, Stiles?” Derek slices his hands through the air, other one on his waist, suit coat wrinkling. “You do realize that your _boss_ was there, right?”

Another pang in his chest, and he has to actually step back. Still calculating, begging for answers, half of Stiles' brain is relieved to know how Derek found out about the article. But the other half… he gives a derisive snort, and his mouth screws up uncomfortably. “I’m glad work is of unwavering importance to you, Derek.”

Emotions flicker across Derek’s face, and Stiles is too worn to determine each one. The older shakes his head, though, looks down to his feet before directing his hand toward Stiles, anger slightly subdued. His actions have caught up to him, and he’s breathing heavier. “Don’t act all high and mighty. You’ve put me through hell for a goddamn magazine article, so, yeah, I figured threatening your career might actually penetrate your thick skull!”

To Derek’s back there are people jogging down the stairs, and there’s a plunging dread in Stiles' stomach that he might get arrested for God knows what. Their conversation needs to wrap up. “I decorated your room and embarrassed you in front of your little friends; so-fucking- _what_ , Derek? It was harmless, and I’m sure you’ll even be able to look back on it and use me for a laugh.” Stiles breaks off, jerks his head to the right to try and catch his breath, relies on the brightness of a street light to quell angry tears even as the lump in his throat baits more. “But what _you_ did is sickening. I messed with your head to complete an assignment, but you played with my heart to get ahead in your career. I guess I should’ve known, huh? So fucking typical of a knot-headed Alpha.”

Wretched frustration draws Derek’s brows fluffy, purses his mouth and wars in his eyes. “Stiles,” he tries, voice soft and grating, “it’s not like that –“

The horde coming toward them drowns out Derek’s volley, and it’s another punch to Stiles' gut of an entirely different caliber – fear – when a security agent steps between them. “Hand over the Aria.”

“Sorry?” Stiles tries. _What_ –?

“The earrings,” someone clarifies, a jeweler who attended Stiles earlier peeks out from the posse. “You’re wearing our diamonds.”

The fist unclenches in Stiles' stomach as he fumbles to take out his accessories. This, at least, he can fix. He hands the bracelet off to Cartier’s representatives and the earrings to its, and then security leaves them be, heads back inside to a situation Derek will be left to settle.

The night is eerily silent, frigid.

“Look,” Stiles aims for the final word, tries to stuff his hands in his pockets with the resolve he’s mustered before realizing that he has none. “I made you the butt of a joke for two weeks. You _won_ , and you can move on, blame it on the crazy bastard that thinks he can write.”

“Stiles –” the man tries again, a pleading note.

“I’ll be the butt of a joke for your whole lifetime. The poor dumbass you got to catch feelings.” He chokes a laugh, has to curl his fingers tight, fights with himself to actually look the other man in the face. “But I can’t blame anyone else, Hale. It’s my own fault.” Another pause, tone dragging harsher: “So I hope you’ll forgive me for ruining your celebratory party.”

Abruptly, Stiles pivots, begins stalking off in hopes of catching a cab. The bravado falls as soon as his back is turned, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from doing anything stupid.

“So that’s it, then?” Derek asks, but it sounds definite rather than inquisitive. “You don’t care to hear my side of the story?”

Painstakingly, Stiles twists back around, the few yards between them doing wonders to help Stiles hold his ground. “I’m sure you’re a decent guy, Hale, but I’m afraid I don’t share your twisted sense of humor, and I’m done playing your games.”

Derek’s features have set themselves blank. Evenly, “We have something, Stiles. We could be something. You know it, and I know it. But if you walk away, we’ll be losing this relationship. How does anyone come out on top in that situation?”

Surprisingly, the confirmation that Derek cared for him in at least some capacity only causes Stiles to ache more, a dull throb in his chest. And it’s hard to swallow. All they’ve done is tear each other down, and it’s nowhere near healthy. So someone has to take one for the team so they don’t continue to ruin themselves.

Stiles lifts his right foot, places it behind him. As well with the left. “I guess my article does.”


	13. Day Twenty-Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks later

| _Monday_ |

Lydia’s office walls are banana yellow now. Too creamy for Stiles' taste, too boring. But maybe it’s meant to soothe. He’s sat on a cedar-colored cube that he imagines would be more useful as a footrest. But it goes with Lydia’s monochromatic, geometric brown theme. So.

His boss has spent the first five minutes of their meeting on her phone by the window, hands flailing and consonants sharp.

When she does greet him, it’s with a sunny disposition, possibly put-on. “I’m going to try to keep this short, Stiles,” she smooths her pencil skirt before sitting behind her desk. “I’ve been thinking about your article.”

That doesn’t give Stiles much to go off of. Whether she’s decided to approve or disapprove doesn’t much matter. One, because _Prestige_ ’s December issue is already in markets, with vendors, shipped to subscribers. Second, because Stiles decided at two in the morning two weeks ago that anyone else’s opinions regarding the piece shouldn’t be bothered over. Because the article is for no one but himself.

And Derek. If the man so chooses to read it.

After a bout of silence and thus finding that she’s not going to get a charged response, Lydia continues: “It’s quite different than what you’ve written before…” Another pause that the woman likely wishes would be filled with a drumroll. “But I love it,” she breaks into a wide grin.

Crickets. “Thank you, Lydia,” he nods his head, gives a thin-lipped smile. It is pleasing on some level, after all, to hear that something you take pride in is appreciated.

“It was fresh and passionate. An even higher level to your work, Stiles,” she continues to beam, fingers clasped on top of her desk. “And that’s why I have a proposal for you.”

 _Whoomp_ there it is. Stiles hardly holds in a sigh, can’t help his nostrils flaring as they express annoyance. “Lydia, I gave you my two-week notice already. I’m not even a technical employee as we speak.”

The woman flutters her hand about, exhales vacuously to toss her hair over her shoulder. “You said yourself that you’re only leaving in order to write the stories you want to write, and I’m prepared to enable just that.”

Well, that’s certainly something. Stiles settles into his seat more fully so to entertain the notion if nothing else. “Anything?”

“Anything!” Lydia stresses, looks as if she can’t contain her excitement with the way her eyes threaten to pop out of their sockets.

“So, religion? Politics? Literature?” He lowers his brow, tilts his head, hands on his knees, “Social issues?”

Lydia glances down, pushes at her desk as she stands up, but Stiles is able to see her grimace. “I was thinking more of a celebrity gossip angle. Blind leads, maybe,” Lydia gives a musing tone, is walking her way back to the window. “People would send in information, you’d do your best to verify it, and then you could create an article about it. The leads could be about anything.”

Right. Stiles didn’t expect much, and yet somehow he is still disappointed. He shakes his head, rises from his seat. “That sounds like a step back. I would be doing the same job if I became a detective, except I’d be getting paid better.”

An annoyed huff, Lydia’s facade finally crumbling to reveal weary features and a lazy posture. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened with you and Derek.”

Stiles feels a blush creeping up his neck, and his tongue might start rambling, “Oh? Well I don’t see how that –”

“Don’t act like you haven’t google searched or Twitter searched or what have you the Hale family,” Lydia cuts him off both with her speech and round eyes, “Laura is my wife, the James that loves you so much is my son, and the Derek that you love so much is my brother-in-law.”

Sputtering, Stiles tries to stand up to make his grand exit.

“It’s partially because of these relations why I would be willing to work out an agreement on what types of articles you can write.” Lydia is stood five feet in front of Stiles now, arms crossed. “On one condition.”

Fuck. “What is it?”

Lydia tilts her head, studies her bright red nails. “Talk to Derek.”

“I’m not going to –” Stiles can’t even finish, righteous as ever in his indignation.

“Listen to me, Stilinski,” Lydia snaps, “You both made mistakes, but Derek was serious about his relationship with you, so if you want a wider range in what you can write about, then I need you to at least settle things between you two.”

Stiles looks down, inhales slowly. His dream has always been to climb up magazine writer hierarchy, but this feels like handing over his already torn-out heart to a wolf in order to take the elevator to the top. A deal with a demon. “Thank you for the opportunity, Lydia,” he begins.

The woman turns back towards him with a less hostile smile, likely prepared to discuss details and due dates and whatever else.

“And thank you for making it so easy to turn down.”


	14. Day Twenty-Eight

| _Tuesday_ |

“I’m just saying,” Scott’s volume grows as he comes back from the kitchen with some sort of cheap, dark wine, “that McGee reminds me of George from _Grey’s_.”

The scene has Stiles thinking of a _How-To_ he did last year on choosing the right drink for different t.v. show genres. Not altogether a bad memory; that article had been fun.

“Well they’re both meant to be the little brother archetype. Baby-faced, a bit chubby,” Stiles offers supportively. He hasn’t voluntarily watched _Grey’s Anatomy_ despite the countless times Scott’s told him to, but he’s seen enough of it to put a face to the name.

Scott plops back down on the couch to Stiles' left, unpauses _NCIS_ before tilting the wine bottle.

Stiles rolls his eyes amusedly, stretches out his goblet and makes sure Scott doesn’t create a mess while pouring.

The first half of the episode has been interesting enough so far, and Stiles will admit that it’s because the setting is similar to the novel he’s finally started. Which reminds him: “I’ve got a book you should read. It’s a crime thriller, but there’s subplots of romance.”

Unamused is Scott’s face. “The last time you recommended a book it turned out to be a hell of a lot like _Saw_.”

Which, true. “I promise, Scott, this one isn’t near as gory. The characterization is complex, and I’m sure you’ll love trying to figure out who the killer is.” Stiles waits a few seconds, adds with a smirk, “Plus, there are a few sex scenes, which I know you like.”

Scott pointedly ignores Stiles, but the latter can see fresh color to his cheeks. He’s likely trying to suppress the memory of Stiles stumbling over his porn mag stash a few months back.

A sharp cackle is barely held in by Stiles. He won’t tease his friend further because he knows Scott will read the story. And the fact makes Stiles quite pleased that he has successfully drug someone else into the insanity that the book has held him in. Sadistic, maybe, but.

There’s a knock at Scott’s door, and Stiles knows the blush won’t be draining from Scott’s cheeks anytime soon.

“That’s Alli with the pasta,” Scott announces needlessly as he trips over a throw on his way to the door. It’s not as if anyone else is expected. Besides, he’s been bringing the woman up in conversation every five minutes, obviously not ready to move on from a long-dead flame.

It would be vaguely amusing if Stiles hadn’t been incidentally _not_ thinking about relationships. And the fact that Stiles hasn’t been at _Prestige_ ’s building lately to witness Scott’s hopeless flirting has helped him along in that department.

Not that Stiles is explicitly angry with Allison, but, well – through Scott’s social media scourging for the Hale family (that Stiles maintains he had no part in) it became apparent that Allison knows Derek through weird family connections. And it’s definitely still a touchy subject, so Stiles more or less avoids Allison’s eye when she barges into the flat.

What Stiles isn’t mentally prepared for is Erica Reyes trailing right behind her. Impromptu, as always, “I’ve brought the first season of _Gossip Girl_!” she declares.

Scott commends her loudly, blabbers on at a tempo that’s unusually quick as he escorts the women the two feet from the entrance to his beat-up sofa.

It’s going to be a horridly long night.

——

“Look, Stilinski,” Erica garbles from her spot beside Scott, leaning over and getting caught in Scott’s limbs as he shoves popcorn in his face.

Apparently their bickering stops when they’re both drunk enough.

The third episode of _Gossip Girl_ has almost run its course, and Scott and Allison have been shamelessly flirting all night, scooting closer and closer. They’re also near sloshed out of their minds, Stiles only on his second glass of wine. Rich, slightly sweet. It leaves a lovely stain on his glass every time it swirls around.

Stiles has also grown accustomed to looking Erica in the eye again. Not that it’s an intimidating notion when she’s giggling most of the time, fawning over Chuck Bass too religiously to keep her gaze set on Stiles.

“Yes?” Stiles answers, prepares himself for either a knock-knock or bar joke.

“I’ve got something to tell you.”

Likely the bar, then. Stiles keeps his focus on the show. He prefers Rufus over Chuck, actually. “Alright.”

“I knew about Derek’s bet,” comes out clearer and more enunciated than anything else Erica has spoken all night.

And, well. Stiles was expecting it eventually. Still, he feels the hairs rise on the back of his neck, and there’s a chill shocked to his system despite the fluffy blanket he’s under. He takes merely a tiny sip of his drink. He’d hate for the subject to induce alcoholism, after all. And it’s also the last of the wine left, so he figures he should ration. “I deduced.”

“You _douche_?” Scott intones inquisitively, no tease. His jaw is dropped open.

Given that the man truly seems confused, Stiles has had no greater indication than now that Scott is a fixed Top.

“ _Shh_ ,” Erica hisses at Scott, slaps a palm over his mouth, “I’m laying my heart out, here.”

Stiles braves connected gaze. Maybe if he confronts the issue head-on it will be less messy to move past. (Mostly he doesn’t picture himself getting out of this too easily.) “Continue.”

Eyes that reflect the light of the t.v., left profile washed a flickering blue. Erica licks her lips, ducks her head probably to arrange syntax. “I was there at Funky Buddha the night you two met. Derek planned to run against his two colleagues for point man on the Dilaurentis campaign, and I was there for moral support.”

Stiles gives a dubious look on ‘ _moral support_ ’ if only to lighten the atmosphere, remains silent otherwise.

“Shut up,” Erica manages to roll her eyes, but Stiles knows there’s no heat. “Anyway, one thing led to another, and the ladies were wagering against him. If he could prove to be a hit with men, they said, then they would back off the case.”

She looks again to Stiles to gauge the energy. “Those two are wicked, I swear. Their whole leeway was seamless, and I figured they were too ignorant to realize that Derek is a siren call for queer men, so I backed Derek up to take the offer. In hindsight, I’m guessing they spotted you and came up with the plan on the spot. Again, wicked. Admirable, even, if they weren’t such bitches.”

Oh. So that’s where the women come into play. Stiles offers a snort in assent, but, honestly, he’s more stuck on Erica’s ‘siren call’ reference. Not only because it’s impressive that Erica could come up with that in her inebriated state, but also because it’s true.

Stiles quickly jerks away from those thoughts. Thinking of Derek in that way hasn’t been beneficial thus far since they’ve – er – broken up. Or at all, as it’s been.

“Why didn’t you tell me once everything was set into motion?” Stiles asks. His voice doesn’t crack, but it’s softer than he would like, fragile. Pleading.

Erica winces. Maybe the tone is obvious. “I was too stunned at first. Pearson picked you out and Derek shook her hand before I could put two and two together. And after,” she trails off, looks to the t.v. and accepts a palm to the bicep from Allison as if _she’s_ the one that should be distraught. “I couldn’t just pick between you who to tell. The only option would have been to tell both of you, but both of you are too noble to have cheated your way through the game.”

The answer is decent. As much as Stiles would like to think he and Derek would have formed a symbiotic relationship in telling each other of their intentions, after all, Stiles knows it wouldn’t have worked out all sunshine and daisies. Stiles wouldn’t have had a proper experience to write a flourished article, and, having a sense of who Derek is, Stiles doesn’t think the older man would fully enjoy his victory if it were ill-gotten.

Despite the fact that Stiles _knows_ this, the hollowness in his stomach and ache in his chest are persistent. As they have been for the past two weeks. And when he’d caught himself thinking of the pets or remembering that he had no plans for the evening, intellectual reasoning didn’t go a long way. Even phoning his mom a few nights ago was rough because her mothering aura reminded him of Talia. Who he surely has disappointed.

“Okay,” he intones. He thinks that he’s owed a bit more explanation, but. Maybe he should just accept that shit happens. Karma and all.

“Look,” Erica jumps before Stiles can go back to pretending to watch _Gossip Girl_ , “I want to tell you something, but I don’t want it to upset you.”

Stiles scoffs good-naturedly. His hair hasn’t seen product in days, he’s got sweater paws going, and tissue would definitely be handy right now. “Fat chance, bud.”

The other doesn’t even laugh, and _that_ definitely scares Stiles a bit.

“The main reason I let it happen is because I thought it would be good for you two.”

Erica thwarts a nasty look from Stiles.

“Let me explain. I know both of you, alright? I know you work your ass off at a job you don’t enjoy, and I know Derek doesn’t think as much of himself as he should. I figured you two might click, that you would come to terms with how ridiculous your work is and that Derek would be pushed toward recognizing his full worth as a potential mate. I figured you wouldn’t stand for Derek realizing anything less, Stiles, because you’re like that. You provide the utmost best for those you care about.”

Well, Stiles sure as hell has admitted how discordant _Prestige_ ’s values are compared to his own. But, he turns from Erica, takes in a deep breath to curl his fingers under his sweater. Ignores the last bit of Erica’s monologue. Tries to curb intense emotion. “He made a bet with his betas that he could make me fall in love with him so that he could steal a case from his colleagues.” Stiles methodically uncrosses his leg, pushes his blanket off. Something is building in his chest, and it’s hot, and he has to get away. Gritting teeth, “Maybe his self-worth is right on point.”

“ _Stiles_ ,” Erica stresses, sits up taller to try and remain level with her converser. “You know it’s not as simple as that. You should talk to him.”

Stiles’ feet are shoved into his dingy _Air Force 1_ s, hand on the doorknob as tension heightens. “I put myself out there, Erica. I told Derek how I felt, and he didn’t do the same. So I walked away, and he made it pretty clear that we’re done.”

“Wait –” Erica continues to plead, fumbles around as if making to stand.

Stiles is already out the door.


	15. Day Twenty-Nine

| _Wednesday_ | 

“… _Who needs men? Ladies_ , frost yourselves…”

“Cut! Very nice. Let’s go one more time,” The director declares towards the front of the room.

Derek watches the commercial run through the screen to his left so that he can see how the digital effects play out. Two men are meant to stand either side of Mrs. Dilaurentis when the scene begins, but when she shoos them off they dissolve into diamonds of light floating upward.

Gone is Mrs. Dilaurentis’ red hair and in is her natural brunette, sleek black dress accessorized with a white fur shawl and hat. The 84-carat yellow diamond necklace is made to pop, and Dilaurentis looks to be standing on a petite bridge, a wintry Central Park their backdrop.

It’s a beautiful shot. Short and simple, yes, but Derek is tremendously pleased. He’s never had such an intimidating project, and now the heavy pressure is all but lifted.

He’d like to continue up with at least two more advertisements. He’s had this vision for a while of an NFL player being in the commercial, showing off his Super Bowl ring one moment and then switching the scene to him proposing to his boyfriend. But being openly queer in the sport entertainment world is not exactly encouraged, so Derek doesn’t think he’d be able to find anyone whose reps would allow them to partake in such a commercial.

It’s… fucking frustrating, mostly. But Derek is not a professional athlete, and he can’t change societal norms with the snap of his fingers. He can only think of the positives. After all, that commercial is in the future, and any competent actor will do swimmingly. Hell, he might jump in there himself, have a twink propose to him just to throw off all the straights.

But he’s again getting ahead of himself. What’s most important is that, currently, those involved with his campaign are happy. The Dilaurentis are happy, and the crew is happy, and everyone. Is. Happy.

(Derek will have to beg the honest, professional opinion from Boyd about the commercial one more time. Just to be safe.)

The scene is just about to run again, crew members scurrying around and Dilaurentis looking almost annoyed when Erica makes an appearance, waltzes through the chaos and over to Derek to stand with him at the back of the room. As always, she cleans up nice, but there’s a lack of pep in her step along with irritation in her eyes.

Derek nods to Erica, crosses his right arm over his chest to rest his left elbow on it, fist to his mouth as if he’s deep in concentration. It’s not that he’s uncomfortable around Erica, but, well.

The woman had been honest, at least, when she let Derek know of her involvement in the altercation with Stiles. She gave her reasoning for letting both of them flop around like fish out of water for ten days straight, and it made sense.

But Derek would still prefer to not be around Erica right now. Not only because of the immense disrespect she showed him as his beta, but also because of the ruined trust between them as friends.

“Looking good, Der,” she crosses her arms casually, side-eyes Derek and whistles, “You’re on your way to producing feature films, I’d say.”

Derek doesn’t react, which Erica probably expected. Her voice is scratchy, and Derek assumes she’s either off of a bender or a round of crying. “Fucked off work?”

“Nah,” Erica answers, “late lunch. I have Chinese if you want it.”

“No thanks.” Derek hasn’t really been hungry lately. Workout, work, workout, sleep. Rinse, repeat. Plus, “Why are you here, Erica?”

His beta doesn’t put up a front, shoulders dropping as she taps her heels, a wince. “I know I messed up, and I want to fix it. Or at least try.” She seems to test each word on her tongue before letting them slip.

Dilaurentis starts the scene again, saunters onto the bridge and rests in the middle as two dapper young men come to flank her.

Stiffness affects Derek’s spine, the busyness in front of him failing to distract from the conversation that Erica wants to have. Peeved is a lot easier to maintain in public than despondent, so he goes with it, swipes his palm over his jaw.

“Look, you’re one of my best friends, and I’m trying to be honest here, alright? You came clean, and I thank you for that. You explained your situation, and I get it. But I still need some time to get past this, Erica.” Derek draws in a heavy breath, drops his lids for a few seconds. In a weaker voice, “There’s nothing more that can be fixed.”

Erica moves a pace forward, turns toward Derek so that the executive can’t easily continue to avoid her eye. There’s something hidden behind Erica’s back that Derek didn’t take note of before, but he’s not sure if he cares to know what it is.

“I think you should talk to Stiles,” Erica blurts out, rolls onto the balls of her feet but steels her jaw.

Derek drops his chin, closes his eyes. As if he hasn’t thought of that. As if he hasn’t played through a hundred variations of said non-existent conversation. As if he doesn’t wish he could’ve stopped Stiles from walking away. But his wishes are useless, because someone like that doesn’t hand out second chances.

Raising his head again, Derek wonders if he looks as weary as he feels. “We _did_ speak, Erica, and Stiles is right: I fucked him over worse than he did me. We both have to live with what we did, and I don’t need to be coddled.”

“ _Derek_ ,” the other snips, bouncing up on her toes as if preparing to tackle Derek if he makes a run for it. “It’s not as it was done maliciously, and we both know nothing about your relationship with Stiles was about the bet. If you thought you were manipulating him you wouldn’t have brought him to the party. If you didn’t reciprocate his feelings then you wouldn’t have continued seeing him.”

‘ _Reciprocate his feelings_.’

Derek’s molars press together, another heavy inhale through clenched teeth. He’s fully prepared to strong-arm Erica if it means escaping these thoughts, mourning his own stupidity. “This discussion is over.”

“ _Derek_!” Erica berates again, flaps her arms ridiculously and nearly stomps her foot, a – magazine? – fluttering in the wake, “Use that thick skull of yours to actually _think _.”__

The insult actually has Derek’s open wounds festering a bit, lower lip jutting out as his brows pull together.

Erica continues before Derek can voice anything: “Stiles was hurt, alright? He wasn’t thinking rationally, and his instincts told him to defend himself, strike back. I know Stiles. He’s well on his way to actually believing the sun shines out of your fucking ass, and he loves loudly. _Think_ , Derek. Actually allow yourself to consider the possibility that you’re worthy of a decent relationship, and I know you’ll find times when Stiles let you know exactly how he felt.”

Flabbergasted, Derek can only stare at his friend. Colleagues and near strangers are likely throwing stink eyes their way due to Erica’s decibel level and stomping feet, pointing hands, but Derek is too overwhelmed to be embarrassed.

Erica rolls her head on her shoulder slightly, tugs on the lapels of her suit jacket to straighten herself back out. Quieter, possibly a bit defeated, Erica finishes, “I can’t convince you, but I’m hoping the time you spent with Stiles will.”

Derek clears his throat and sweeps his gaze around the room. The conversation is done, then, but he won’t allow himself to overanalyze what’s been said until he’s at home in his bed trying not to remember how a Star Wars quilt found itself at his feet. “Alright.”

A flick of golden irises to Derek’s face, Erica tilts her head, steps forward calculatedly. “You should read this,” is all she says as the magazine is offered to Derek.

What will be found Derek already knows. He gingerly takes the publication, willpower funneled on not allowing a peek at it. Later his resolve will run out, but for now, he nods again to Erica.

 _Later_ turns out to be as soon as Erica is gone, and Derek punishes himself for his lack of strength by making sure to stop on random sections, check out a perfume sample. When he lands on the correct page he makes a last ditch effort to control himself, flips one page back to view the product being sold by a Kardashian. Imagining Stiles' upper lip curled in disgust at having his work rest beside someone like that draws a genuine smile to Derek’s lips.

Still, his heart thumps erratically as he settles on the man’s full spread. The page is white, a cartoon broken heart taking up a good portion of the backdrop. The title is enlarged in hot pink font, and quotes are bolded throughout with lime green highlight.

> **HOW TO: Lose a Guy in 10 Days**  
>  By M. A. Stilinski
> 
> **Lost a guy and don’t know why? What went wrong?**  
>  _A month ago, guided by M. Alexander and J Long’s_ Universal Don’ts of Dating _, I set out to commit certain silly dating faux pas set up for women everywhere. What I didn’t realize was that I was making the biggest mistake of all…_

  
Sometime Derek swears himself to reading the whole thing, but in the moment the highlighted quotes are begging to be looked over first. 

> ” **Faking a personality in order to date someone won’t ultimately lead to happiness or healthiness.** _Every day that passed in my relationship I gained more stress and less sleep. Coming up with new ways to Fake It was an uphill battle, and I only felt worse the higher I climbed._ ”

  


> “ **Cliché as it sounds, ladies: BE YOURSELF.** _Despite the annoying characteristics that shone, my guy stuck around for all the little genuine quirks that naturally revealed themselves_.”

  
It’s interesting being able to see their time together through the other man’s eyes. Some references he picks up right away, and, from at least one perspective, Derek concedes that some of the shit Stiles pulled was funny. Like the blowup of Stiles' head on a shower curtain and the tacky, matching t-shirts. Further, it’s comforting to know that the boy isn’t heartless, that some moves that seemed so forbidding were not pleasant for Stiles to carry out.

But Derek’s heart also heavies at the palpable grief in Stiles' divulgences, and he wants nothing more than to comfort the boy, let him know that forgiveness is being worked towards.

On the last bolded line, Derek’s heart palpitates. Chills run over his body, and he holds his breath to reread the closing. Just to make sure it wasn’t misread. To soak in the meaning behind the words.

After a few moments Derek closes the magazine, _knows_ he shouldn’t dwell on the article. But there’s a kick in his system now – something he can’t blame on caffeine or nicotine. One minute passes in what feels like five, Derek flicking his eyes to his wristwatch to escape the commercial acting that has turned monotonous.

It’s almost three o’clock, and he’s been at this since seven. No one’s come to hash out logistics relevant to business affairs at all today, and Derek knows that tomorrow will only be a group of people watching the final cut of the commercial over until their eyes bleed. He’s not needed any longer today.

And his mind keeps going back to the damned article. The last line. And there’s a knot in his stomach he doesn’t think will untangle until he spills himself to Stiles. There’s a wolf inside him that won’t stop clawing and pacing and whining until he holds Stiles again.

Because Stiles poured his heart out in print for anyone and everyone to read, and Derek couldn’t utter _anything_ of value the last time they saw each other. When he watched Stiles walk away, pulsating heart on his sleeve.

Actually putting one foot in front of the other to go find Stiles is terrifying, but also exhilarating once he’s out of his building, straddling his bike.

For good measure, and just so he doesn’t chicken out and make a detour before arriving at Prestige, Derek flips to Stiles' article and reads the last line over again.  


> “ ** _I ended up pushing away the one man that I believe could have been the love of my life._** ”

  
——

In hindsight, Derek probably should have put more thought into how he would go about navigating _Prestige_ ’s building. It’s rather large, and the first floor is the obvious place to search given that there are cubicles, but there’s upper levels as well, and –

Derek inhales deeply and stands taller. He’s only just walked through the revolving door, and losing it now won’t do him a lick of good.

So he reevaluates the floor plan. It’s set up rather chic, he has to say, a foyer taking up a fourth of the space to the left and work stations to his right. A landing runs along the far wall, which gives the illusion of taller ceilings, and bright colors accent the furnishings every so often in chairs and flower vases. Optimal for sunlight and positive energy.

He’s been stationary too long, and it only deepens the feeling that he’s out of place, far from his element. No one pays him any mind, though, sleek heels and gelled hair running about with coffees or papers.

Another therapeutic breath, and Derek’s coming to find that they don’t actually do much. Even so, he moves forward, begins down one row of cubicles and prays to the heavens that no one calls him out.

The bravado that pushed him to ditch in the middle of shooting his own commercial to instead hunt down his past relationship has diminished significantly, obviously. But remembering why he’s here, going back over Stiles' words and imagining the boy’s face builds him back up.

‘… _could have been the love of my life._ ’

Derek grips the _Prestige_ issue tighter, peels his eye for pale skin and stark moles as he peruses the field of journalists, inhales deeply to try and hone in on Stiles’ woodsy scent. What catches his attention is a bouquet of multi-colored flowers, dead in the afternoon sunlight on a desk up against the front wall, far right. No one is in the cubicle, that much is obvious, but it’s also – bare? The wall is clear as well as the desk, no clutter, no personal touches, not even any files.

But the flowers are definitely the ones that Derek sent Stiles a month ago, so… _where’s Stiles_?

Offhandedly, Derek is thrilled that his gift was appreciated enough for Stiles to show it off to anybody that might see. Further, he wonders what’s been made of the wolf stuffie that is nowhere to be seen. Which brings him back to the matter that should be dealt with first.

Twisting around, Derek decides his best bet is to ask the chatterboxes two cubicles over if they know what’s happened. A lanky kid with long hair is leaning on a desk beside – Allison Argent? – who is browsing on her computer. Almost simultaneously they look up once Derek graces their presence, the man’s countenance like a deer caught in headlights as his conversation meets an abrupt end. A few seconds later Allison’s features morph blank as if she’s trying to veil her thoughts, and Derek figures he’s found the right duo.

There’s something familiar about the man, and Derek’s sure it will drive him crazy until he figures out what, but he pushes that to the back of his mind.

“Hello, Allison. Can you tell me where Stiles Stilinski is?” is initiated swiftly, Derek switching more weight onto his left leg to appear casual.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Allison starts, flickers her eyes up to her companion only to find that he’s turned away from them, acting busy on a notepad. “He actually is taking a vacation right now,” her voice is calm but there’s an underlying quake. Like she’s trying not to enrage a wild animal.

“A vacation?” Derek sounds dubious to his own ears. A vacation often needs to be planned a good amount of time in advance, and he’s sure Stiles would have mentioned it when they were seeing each other.

She again eyes the other man, sends him a glare that he’s obviously pretending not to notice. “To California.”

Oh. That makes sense. Stiles had been missing his family quite a bit, so Derek assumes that he went to see them. But, “Where’s all his stuff? That’s his desk, right?” he points with the rolled up magazine to said area.

“Er –” Allison tries, growing more uncomfortable by the second.

And Derek truly doesn’t have time for this. “Look,” he breaks in, works to pull his features into repentance, “I need to talk to him. I owe him an explanation.”

This time her mouth falls into a frown, a divot between her brows. She crosses her knees, leverages her hands on her seat to sit up straighter. “It was, yes. He actually quit about two weeks ago.”

Derek feels like he’s been attacked, chest clawed. The words don’t make sense in his head. He shifts from foot to foot, works to swallow a snarl. “Quit?”

“Yes. He went to stay with his family for a while, but he’s been looking for a new job. I think he’s got a few interviews lined up around Redding.”

He might fall nauseous. Attempting to swallow around the dryness in his throat is all Derek can do, fingers flexing tighter around the damned magazine. “When did he leave?”

“Well,” Allison titters, angles toward her desktop to squint at the bottom corner. Maybe she should look into glasses. “He actually hasn’t caught his plane yet. It leaves tonight around 7:00, but I’m sure you know how they are with flights.” She shrugs not unkindly.

4:40 pm reads Derek’s Rolex, and there’s a renewed vibrancy in Derek’s speech. “So he should be getting to the airport soon, then?”

His conversationalist doesn’t seem to pick up on Derek’s urgent demeanor, laughs a bit before replying, “Ideally, yes, but being late is one of his more obstinate qualities, so.”

Derek chuckles with little mirth. He hadn’t actually learned that fact. “JFK?”

“Right,” she nods, is able to see that the discussion is coming to its close.

“Alright, thank you,” Derek imparts a bit distractedly, has leaned to his left slightly in effort to scratch the itch that is telling him he knows the mute man.

Said guy glances over his shoulder due to the awkward silence that’s filled their area, catches Derek’s eye before quickly turning his face again.

But it’s too late, and Derek’s subconscious is satisfied. He tries to play it cool, not appear peevish even though he feels he has a right to be. “You’re not a therapist, are you, Paco?” The kid smells like a werewolf, and Derek should’ve realized sooner that he’s the one whose scent is always on Stiles.

The man slowly pivots to face Derek, features verifiably sheepish. “Er, ‘fraid not.”

Derek allows his brows to draw down, lips puckering as he nods his head. “Of course not.” Without further ado, he makes to leave, but at the last second he remembers something and has to step into the cubicle again: “I’d like my three hundred dollars back.”

Instead of remaining ashamed as expected, maybe skittish, Scott’s body language actually relaxes as one side of his mouth tugs up. A half-shrug. “You think Stiles would actually let me keep that? Nah, dude; he ripped the cheque up.”

Derek’s laugh is more an exhale of disbelief. Even though it shouldn’t be, because that seems like something Stiles would do. A moment is spent gazing at the magazine cover, a gentle smirk revealing itself. “Right,” he nods toward the two journalists, “Thanks again. We’ll catch up, Allison.”

They murmur reply as Derek fixes the issue under his arm, spins around to start up a quick pace.

A hitch in his grand plan, yes, but Stiles hasn’t left yet, and Derek’s already decided to not give up this time.

**

Stiles doesn’t know why he’s ceaselessly baffled by New York’s traffic. He marvels at taxi drivers as well, because he would die of even the possibility of road rage before being faced with it in the streets all day every day. Sometimes he’s irked by just watching the flow of traffic from his apartment. Or the lack of flow, as it is.

Preparing for the worst, he left his apartment early just in case the streets got backed up, and sitting backseat of the cab, he’s content to wait it out. When he’s not stressed beyond belief, as it turns out, it’s an idly entertaining game to people watch from the car, trying to come up with a backstory for the faces he passes by. But maybe he should pause his game so he doesn’t grow tired of it before the airport.

He had wanted to fly home the night of the Dilaurentis Party, but tickets were priced quite a pretty penny, and his parents would have only worried as to why he needed to be there so quickly, likely deducing that he either lost his job, broke his heart, or killed someone.

So, instead, he rang his mom the following morning to ask how keen she would be to keep him past the Thanksgiving Holiday, said that he had a build-up of vacation days to use. Which isn’t untrue, exactly; he now has an indefinite amount of days to spend away from Prestige, in fact. He also conveniently forgot to mention the job interviews he’s set up in Sacramento, but it’s his own life, and there’s no use in teasing his dad’s poor heart until things are set in stone.

Crossing the Queensboro Bridge, Stiles thinks he – well, there’s a flash of –

No. Sleep deprivation must be getting to him, because he thought he saw a sleek Ducati, a familiar body. But that’s ridiculous. Because there have got to be hundreds of motorcycles in Manhattan alone and one hundred times as many men. Besides, Derek should be hard at work right now producing his advertisements for Dilaurentis Diamonds. He’s not thinking of silly boys.

And Stiles is not a prince, and this is not a fairytale.

And Stiles might have to punch himself for edging so close to a Taylor Swift lyric.

He plugs in his earbuds, cranks up the songs his dad used to play on lazy afternoons, crooned lyrics floating throughout the house. There’s around an hour of his commute left, and he could do with the nostalgic solace.

——

Two pieces of baggage is all Stiles packed, and he thinks he’d rather have lugged along three carry-ons if it meant not having to brave the line to check his lone suitcase onto the plane. It’s recommended to arrive at your airport one to two hours before a domestic flight, and while Stiles strives to be the exception to every rule and friendly suggestion, he’s actually on time.

Being responsible is a nice change up for his everyday routine, but he has to admit that arriving at the airport would have been a much more joyous occasion if it were ten minutes before his flight was scheduled to depart and his suitcase still had clothes hanging out the side.

It’s now closer to 7:00 pm than 6:00, and his flight is set to leave at 7:55, so he entertains the plan of grabbing outrageously expensive airport food and curling up in a café before checking through security at his terminal at the very last minute.

Terminal 7 is where he’s meant to be, but it’s probably the least food-stocked of the eight terminals of JFK, so he wastes precious LTE data to search up ‘ _cafés in JFK airport_.’ Once he’s glossed over a few reviews, Stiles AirTrains over to _Peet’s Coffee & Tea_.

The wrap he orders is good, eggy, and his dark roast is smooth. He doesn’t have complaints other than to suggest they rename the joint ‘ _Peet’s Tea & Coffee_’ so it rolls easier off the tongue, but who is he, anyway? Certainly not in the business of advertising.

By the time he makes it back around to his terminal it’s 7:10, but he doesn’t want to lock himself inside the gate yet. There’s a Starbucks to his immediate right once the AirTrain comes to a rest, so he slides into a provided seat. It’s truly incredible how unscrupulous he feels just by bringing another restaurant’s product into Starbucks.

Nevertheless, Stiles settles himself at a two-person table and shrugs his backpack to the floor, rouses through it to pull out the sequel to his crime thriller novel. He’s only glazed over the blurb, skimmed through a few pages, and read the last sentence, but already it’s noticeable that this one will air a much more domesticated vibe. Which isn’t viewed as a let-down, because Stiles still hasn’t recovered from the intensity of its predecessor.

The parallel world has him wrapped up tightly enough by the fourth page for him to not take a glimpse at the person who grazes past him. He bargains to do so at the end of his current paragraph, but then he pushes it past the next, and by then he’s truly too amused by the protagonist’s snarkiness to scowl at someone who had a mishap with personal space.

Two pages later, though, the chair in front of Stiles scrapes backward across linoleum, and Stiles' annoyance is piqued enough for him to force his head up.

It’s like a jump scare, only Stiles' pulse is what skips while the rest of his body stiffens, freezes.

“Can I ask what you’re reading?” Derek Hale’s tone is enviously light, smile tiny as he gestures towards the chair, asking if he can join.

Of course. Of _fucking_ course something like this would happen to Stiles. He has to look away, grips his book taut and licks over his teeth. He’s a far cry from suave right about now. And he truly does try to vocalize something, _anything_ , but there’s a blockage of cotton in his throat. A jerk of the head is managed, at least.

“You were engrossed. It must be good,” Derek remarks as he settles into his chair, hands in his lap. Small talk, soft voice. A leaning slouch makes for a demeanor that appears completely eased, but his hands are hidden beneath the table, so Stiles can only selfishly hope it’s to disguise a nervous tic.

A tinge of shock is still prominent on Stiles' mind, but there’s a creeping discomfort, something not sitting quite right in his stomach. Embarrassment. So he tucks his chin and suffers through his face heating in the worst way. “It is,” he clears his throat.

Surely Derek is aware of the quality to Stiles' emotions, but the man remains politely reserved. There’s a bitten lip, maybe a wince, but his head is tilted too far down as familiar eyes flicker upward. “I found something as well,” he finally says, lays carefully _Prestige Magazine_ on the table between them.

 _Fuck_. Stiles takes back his unwritten invitation for Derek to hold stake in the article. He doesn’t want the man to touch it with a ten-foot pole, doesn’t want to be in this current predicament with so many relevant questions he can’t speak into existence. But it’s obvious Derek already _has_ become aware of it, because he’s sitting across from Stiles at a Starbucks in terminal 7 of JFK airport with a copy of the column.

The older man doesn’t _seem_ particularly high-strung or angry or upset. But Stiles isn’t exactly in a proper mindset to analyze. And, rationally he knows that there is an extremely low threat of danger, but he still wants to run. Flight over fight.

A sip of his still-warm coffee helps Stiles anchor himself mentally. Which springs the revelation that Stiles should be wondering how the hell Derek found him here, what he’s specifically _doing_ here, but what tumbles out of his mouth is, “I’m sorry.”

Derek’s facial expression adjusts itself incrementally, finally sticks with a genuinely confused moue, eyebrows stretched high and curved pityingly, and eyes shining with a hint of mirth. “For what, Stiles?”

Stomping down the flutter in his belly at the question so easily made intimate with use of his own name (because, _really_ , Stiles is pathetic), the younger searches for an appropriate answer. Most intentionally, Stiles meant he’s sorry that Derek had to read the article. See how his game was calculatedly, clinically laid out. How each hassle or insult was aimed to injure. But Stiles should also apologize for reacting so hypocritically the night of the party. And for most likely mortifying Derek in front of his colleagues and associates, pack.

The book is laid spine up. “For – everything,” Stiles manages. “What I did to you was super shitty, and.” A quick sip of his beverage is taken, and Stiles hopes Derek knows he’s not finished as his eyes sweep over the section of the airport unseeingly. “I shouldn’t have gone ahead with the article from the beginning, but especially not after you found out.”

“No,” is almost a coo, Derek’s initial reaction, but then he straightens up, accidentally rattles the table with his knee. Firmer, “I’m glad you wrote the article, Stiles. It was nice to see everything from your point of view.” A light chuckle, blue eyes blinking up through framing lashes so beautifully.

For whatever reason, Derek’s shoulders have fallen forward and his tone has diminished in power. It’s like he’s curling in on himself, and Stiles feels an urge to wrap himself around the other man, rub his back to balm ailment. As it is, Derek seems to be waffling over words in his head, so Stiles doesn’t cross any lines.

After a moment, he speaks up, fingers twisting together. “It was difficult for me not to take everything personally. I mean, during those two weeks I had no clue what was going on with you and I couldn’t tell if you were just erratic or malicious. I kind of caught on, I think. Figured it was some sort of act, but I didn’t know what for.” He licks his lips locks gaze with a tense Stiles. “But the article let me know that you aren’t insane, that you’re not malicious either. You never set out to harm _me_ , it was just a casualty of doing your job.”

Stiles holds his tongue for all of two seconds before he’s grimacing out, “Derek, what I did still isn’t justified, and –”

“I came here to tell you that I want to forgive you,” Derek saves them from what would have been a dreadfully incompetent ramble.

The simple sentence’s effect on Stiles is immediate and substantial. A sudden burst of joy he tries to conceal because there’s still a weighing shame that makes Stiles want to declare that he doesn’t deserve forgiveness. 

Stiles’ conflict must be palpable to Derek because he continues: “I’m still trying to work through it, yes, and I’m still bothered by everything that happened.” A breath as he focuses intently on Stiles' face. “But I fucked up too. So I’m here to apologize to you and ask _your_ forgiveness.”

“Der,” Stiles can’t help but murmur, eyebrows permanently tight together, apparently. This time his hand shoots out to nudge Derek’s fingers before it can be stopped. The touch is so relieving that he craves to blanket himself in it, but it also ignites a fire in his stomach, and he’s shocked enough by himself to jerk his arm backward, gape so hideously.

“Let me speak, sweetheart,” Derek berates gently around his smile that’s twitching to grow wider, a deeper shine to his eyes. He reaches out while Stiles is still unmoving to curl his fingers around the slender hand. “I didn’t say what I should have the last time I saw you, so I need to now.”

Against a wilting self-control, Stiles preens at the pet name and under the touch, knows it can be seen in his cheeks, smelled in his scent, heard in his heartbeat. And this _has_ to be a good indication of where Derek’s affections lay, right? But there’s always a chance he’s just being polite – or, worse: trying to screw Stiles over as revenge.

Derek, always so adept in reading Stiles, eradicates the younger’s nasty thoughts by hooking their ankles together and trailing his thumb over smooth knuckles. “The bet was fucked up. Looking back I can see that it was Blake and Pearson who engineered our relationship as an underhanded way to keep the Diamond Campaign,” he kind of trails off as his jaw flexes. “But I still shook on it.”

A little confused but not surprised by the colleague information since he heard the same from Erica, Stiles is about to ask clarification when he halts at the look on Derek’s face.

Renewed vigor shows in a puffed chest and intense gaze. “What I need you to know, Stiles, is that our time together was not about my bet. Especially when you weren’t trying to kill me –” he breaks to shoot a teasing glare at the boy “– the wager was only a bonus to being with you.”

Stiles nods along, heart lurching at the confession. “I’m willing to forgive you as well.” But it’s not so simple, and he knows that. With a worrying brow he glances up to Derek’s face. A miniscule part of him hopes to be drowned out by the ruckus of airport – chatter, beepings, luggage wheels – so he won’t have to put himself out there further. “So what does all of this mean for us?”

The older doesn’t appear particularly taken by the question. There’s a visible swallow, though, as he ducks down to nod at the magazine, squeezes Stiles' hand. “Is what you said true?”

Better posed at the start of the conversation Derek’s question arguably would have been. But Stiles thinks a select quote might be what the older man is really asking about. With a steeled jaw, thrumming pulse, “I meant every word, Derek.”

The man’s answering beam is devastating as he leverages himself on his forearms. “Then I’m hoping to continue seeing you. And, well –” he matches Stiles' slight tilt inward, “if it’s not too forward, I’d like to be able to introduce you as my boyfriend from now on.”

A breech in Derek’s confidence is evident, and Stiles finds it impossibly endearing the bitten lip and quieter tone. He leans still closer to the man, hardly keeps himself from bumping their noses together. “I like the sound of that, sourwolf.”

It’s entirely too easy to melt into Derek’s lips on his own. His heart is racing, of course, but Derek is holding his chin steady and the older’s mouth is warm. And Stiles has missed this intimacy terribly, fingers curling at Derek’s nape and into the collar of his button-down to sneak out his tongue and moan against Derek’s.

At a break Stiles finally asks the question he couldn’t utter when Derek first sat down: “How did you find me, Der?” A genuinely curious tone, tilted head.

Derek is reasonably distracted, quickly spouts, “I read the article and had to see you. So I went to your office, found out from Allison – who I never realized you knew – and the _not_ -therapist, who must actually be Scott, that you quit and were on your way to the airport. I saw you in the line to check your bag into cargo but looked at the flight board and went straight to terminal 7 to avoid a wild goose chase. Or, y’know, stalking.”

To Stiles' standards that’s quite a bit of work. Or maybe he’s still dizzy with Derek’s kiss. Either way, “You’re so perfect,” he practically swoons before swooping back in to press his mouth to Derek’s.

The older only allows one drawn peck before purring, “Only the best for you.” He doesn’t make room for reply, catches Stiles' lips again and teases at the stubble on the younger’s jaw.

When they break apart it’s evidently too soon for both of them because a stream of shorter, less wet kisses follow.

“God, I can’t believe Erica pulled this shit off,” Derek groans, “I should have connected that you always talked about the same Allison, that you and her worked at the same place. And Scott, God. I sat in a room with him for an hour discussing our relational issues.” Derek sends an unimpressed glare to Stiles at the last bit, but there’s no heat, and he looks down at the table afterward in defeat. “I’m a fucking idiot.”

A whine of discontent voices out of Stiles, and he nudges their foreheads together so the other will meet his eyes. “Don’t, Derek. If I would have connected that Blake and Pearson knew about my article and were also vying for the Diamond Campaign, then the night of the party would have gone down quite differently.”

Derek tilts his head and sports a moue as if to concede, so Stiles cuts in before there can be a self-depreciating argument. “Let’s not, okay? I haven’t seen you in two weeks, and I’m tired of hurting. I think we both deserve a break.”

The older’s brow remains troubled, but he nods, nudges in for another kiss.

They stay like that for some time, soaking in each other’s presence and tangling fingers and petting over skin despite the slightly chaotic environment. And it’s a bit inappropriate to make out at an airport, Stiles thinks, but he doesn’t care much. He’s sure the place has seen more suggestive displays, anyway.

At that thought, Stiles genuinely chuckles as his lazy lids open. “I’m so glad we didn’t have a huge Airport Scene.” 

A shaking head, titters, and a playful grin. The kissing is therapeutic, apparently. “We’ve still got your homecoming, yeah?” There’s an actual question below the jest, timid as it is.

Which, oh, yeah. Stiles has two interviews set up across the country that Derek may or may not know about. But, if he’s being honest with himself, he probably wouldn’t take either one if offered. Partially because his family is so pleased with how well he’s done in his field, but also because he’s made a home for himself in New York.

And, now, a boyfriend that he’d like a shot with. “Yeah,” he affirms.

Derek smiles as his shoulders visibly lift. “Good, because there’s a dining table begging for you to make good on your _filthy_ word from two weeks ago.”

Rolling his eyes to appear unaffected even though they both know he’s anything but, “Alright, Hulk.” Stiles should have known Derek would beg for a dick up his ass first chance.

Derek bites at Stiles' lower lip unforgivingly, but Stiles feels the rumble of a laugh.

And Stiles is so ecstatic, far from terrified. But he’s able to admit that it doesn’t mean their relationship isn’t relevant or serious or significant. And he realizes there are plenty of fights to be had and happenings to discuss still, but he wants it.

And he figures the former they can take out on each other with the table, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue may or may not be in the works depending on how much inspiration I have.

**Author's Note:**

> I would love helpful critique.
> 
> tumblr: [rogueziam](Http://rogueziam.tumblr.com)
> 
> Fic post w/ graphic: [x](http://rogueziam.tumblr.com/post/172844417626/bet-its-worth-it-by-bad1ands-rogueziam)
> 
> All kudos, comments, and bookmarks truly are greatly appreciated!


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